


Early Summer Rain

by secondmeteor



Category: Naruto
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, OC villain - Freeform, Slow Burn, mitoka is only in this a little and for that I apologize, the 'historical' tag is very loosely applied, there is a plot but only as a vehicle for the gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-12-28 20:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21142877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondmeteor/pseuds/secondmeteor
Summary: In an era of warring samurai, Senju Hashirama finds his clan pitted against a powerful rival daimyō and facing certain defeat. A chance encounter with a one-time friend might give Hashirama a way out - that is, if he can get Uchiha Madara to trust him. Samurai AU





	1. Uchiha Madara

**Author's Note:**

> More than a year ago I promised to write some Hashimada, and so, finally, here it is: an incredibly self-indulgent slow(ish) burn fic instead of the cute oneshot I'd intended. If you happen to like your fics a little longer, you have thelistening to thank for encouraging me, and editing all my chapters, and telling me to write this instead of doing actual work. Without her, this would have stayed safely in my brain where it truly belongs.
> 
> My 'research' for this fic started with JSTOR and very quickly devolved into binge watching Neko Samurai (it's so good!!), so I make no claim to historical accuracy. Due to the samurai subject matter, this story will have fairly explicit violence as well as suicide mentions (as per the tags) - nothing worse than canon to my judgement, but please be cautious. I will warn for sexual content in the chapter notes so that you can skip it if that's not your cup of tea.
> 
> Edit: This work now has art!!!!! Check out this unbelievable [manga!](https://thelistening.tumblr.com/image/616751260662661120)

The village might have been a lovely little town under different circumstances, but unfortunately Hashirama was finding it quite miserable. For one thing, he was here in this tiny border town in a last-ditch effort to avoid a war; and for another, Hagoromo Iesada had kept him waiting long enough for the chilly spring rain to soak entirely through his armour. The linked iron plates might have been good protection against swords and arrows, but they were absolutely useless against a persistent drizzle, not to mention annoyingly heavy. Hashirama had specifically requested a meeting out in the open to mitigate the threat of assassination attempts, but he was beginning to feel he'd rather fight an entire army than stand in the rain a moment longer.

“I’m setting up the next treaty negotiations at a hot spring,” he grumbled at Tōka. Her lips twitched up a bit in an answer that didn’t reach her eyes, which remained focused, intently scanning the deserted streets. She wasn’t exactly helping to alleviate the boredom, but then, she was the only bodyguard he’d brought on this trip – a show of good faith on the part of the Senju – so he could hardly blame her. She had good reason to be tense: a negotiation with an ambitious and powerful rival daimyō was hardly a vacation. There was a reason in-person meetings between clan leaders was rare, but Hashirama believed that the show of trust was critical for the survival of the nascent treaty. Not that he was entirely trusting, which was the reason his second-in-command and successor, Tobirama, was nice and toasty back in the Senju camp and not freezing in the rain with his brother. Hashirama sincerely hoped that Tobirama would avenge his death if he died of boredom or cold before the Hagoromo even showed up.

The incessant drip of rainwater was at last broken by the sound of hoofbeats. “Finally,” Hashirama sighed. He drew in a breath and stood up straight, head held level, calm yet resolute as a samurai is taught to stand. It might come down to his enemy’s measure of him to prevent war.

Rounding the corner came five horsemen. The leader was dressed in black lacquered armour, plates woven through with red silk thread, and he wore a helmet bearing a crest of golden horns. Adorning his chestplate was an elaborately painted symbol: the purple ringed eye of the Hagoromo clan. As the horsemen came to a stop in front of the tiny Senju delegation, Hashirama noted that the lead rider was a young man in his early twenties. Not Iesada, then. So much for a show of trust. 

“Senju Hashirama?” the rider asked.

Hashirama inclined his head. “May I ask your name?”

“I am Hagoromo Toshifusa, nephew of Iesada-sama. My uncle has sent me to negotiate on his behalf.”

“Is everything well with your uncle? He agreed to meet with me in person.” Hashirama was taking a serious risk by being here, so the slight was not insignificant.

Toshifusa gave Hashirama a haughty look, enhanced by the fact that he was still looking down on him from horseback. “My uncle was unfortunately too busy to attend this meeting personally. He sends his apologies.”

How sincere, thought Hashirama, annoyed. Still, at least he’d sent a blood relative in his place; maybe this treaty could still be salvaged. “Thank you for meeting with me, Toshifusa-san. I’m glad to have the opportunity to speak with you.” A bit of a lie, but it never hurt to be polite.

“And I with you, Hashirama-dono.” Toshifusa motioned forwards one of his samurai, who held out a scroll in Hashirama’s direction. “The terms of the treaty, as dictated by my uncle.”

Hashirama made no move to take it. “I received his terms from the emissary, thank you. If you don’t mind, there are a few points I would like to discuss.”

“Name them, then.”

_If this is what the nephew is like, I’d hate to meet the daimyō_, thought Hashirama. He took a breath through his nose before answering. “You have asked for our aid in your conflict with the Uzumaki clan. The Senju and Uzumaki have been on friendly terms for years; what reason do we have to join with you against them?”

Now Toshifusa was starting to look annoyed as well. “You will receive the protection of the Hagoromo clan, naturally. With the addition of Uzumaki territory, we entirely control the trade from the eastern coast to the capital. As my uncle’s retainer you will of course benefit from our success.”

As a retainer? Hashirama’s heart sank. “I came here to discuss an agreement between two clans as equals,” he said, keeping his tone mild.

“The Hagoromo clan is clearly superior in number as well as resources; how can we have a discussion as equals when our two clans differ in power?”

Oh, Hashirama was going to get such an ‘I told you so’ lecture from his brother later. “And if I refuse to swear loyalty to your clan?” he asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

“Your lands will be taken by force,” replied Toshifusa.

Hashirama had seen peace talks break down faster, but not by much. The negotiations weren’t over yet, though, and outright threats meant it was time to change tactics. “Are you certain your clan is capable of that, Toshifusa-san? You claim great power, but the Uzumaki have held out against you for several months, I believe. Can you really afford to fight wars on two of your borders?”

“The Uzumaki are on the verge of surrender,” Toshifusa sniffed. “Once the Hagoromo clan has absorbed their territory, we will control the lands immediately to your north and east. Can _you_ afford a war on two borders, Hashirama-dono?”

Well, he certainly wasn’t keen on the idea. “I would be more than happy to consider a mutual non-aggression pact, if your uncle –” Hashirama cut himself off as sounds of shouts and the clashing of steel filtered in from one of the nearby streets. “Did you bring more samurai than just the ones here?”

“Of course,” replied Toshifusa, affronted. “Is there a problem?”

Well, that probably meant it was time for him and Tōka to make good their escape before this self-important little idiot decided to slaughter the two of them. But being the foolhardy peacemaker he had always been, and against his better judgement, Hashirama was going to make sure Toshifusa’s vastly superior force wasn’t harassing any civilians before he left. Iesada was clearly toying with them anyways; he obviously didn’t have any intention of honouring any agreement Hashirama made. With a clipped, “Excuse me,” Hashirama turned and headed towards the sound of the commotion, Tōka at his heels. Toshifusa spluttered indignantly but followed as well.

He didn’t have to look far; just past a cluster of houses was a group of men in armour emblazoned with the purple eye symbol, standing with swords drawn. It looked like whatever fight had been going on was already over: two samurai were holding a man in a tattered robe on his knees in the mud, arms wrenched behind his back. The man had his head down, long matted hair obscuring his face. Three more samurai standing nearby snapped to attention as Hashirama approached with their leader in tow.

“What happened here?” barked Toshifusa.

“This peasant just ran at us out of nowhere, sir! He attacked us with a sword, but we managed to subdue him.” One of the men handed Toshifusa an unsheathed tachi with a strangely familiar blue-wrapped hilt.

Toshifusa took the blade and examined it. “I see. Well, no need to concern ourselves with this situation: the lower classes are not to carry samurai weapons under pain of death. You may cut off his head.”

That sword was tugging at Hashirama’s memory – before he knew what he was doing he was calling, “Stop!”

Toshifusa and his men all turned to stare at him; at the sound of his voice, the man on the ground lifted his head to look at Hashirama as well. Hashirama’s breath caught in his throat. The long, wild hair was unfamiliar; the man in front of him was pale, with dark circles under his eyes; blood from a wound at his hairline covered half his face. But for all that Hashirama recognized him, could hardly fail to recognize that gaze, though it had been years since he’d last seen him.

Uchiha Madara.

“Well?” demanded Toshifusa. “What’s the problem?”

He didn’t know who he’d captured – that was lucky. If Hashirama was very careful, he might have an opportunity here. Forcing himself to sound only mildly concerned, he replied, “I recognize this man. He is a samurai of the Uchiha clan.”

“An Uchiha? What’s he doing attacking my men in Senju territory?”

“I’m not sure, Toshifusa-san. If you were to release him into my custody, I’m certain -”

“Hashirama.” The rasping voice brought him up short. Madara was staring at him, ignoring Toshifusa and the samurai holding him down. Then, to Hashirama’s utter shock, he said, “I’m glad it’s you. If it’s you who kills me, I will be satisfied.”

For a long moment, Hashirama could do nothing but gape in disbelief. Was this the proud and powerful Uchiha Madara, feared such that the mention of his name could quiet a village, asking to die on Hashirama’s sword? Uchiha Madara surrendering was unthinkable, impossible – what could possibly have happened to bring the man before him to this?

The samurai were waiting for Hashirama’s answer. His choice of action was obvious: this was the perfect opportunity to eliminate the head of a dangerous rival clan. He might have a peace treaty with the Uchiha at the moment, but alliances were precarious; with Madara dead, a takeover would be assured.

Hashirama tore his eyes from Madara’s bloody face and turned to give Toshifusa a deep bow, ignoring Tōka’s surprised inhale. “Toshifusa-san. This man was a friend to me in the past; the least I can do for him is give him an honourable death. If you were to release him into my care, I would remember the favour gratefully.” He laid a little extra emphasis on this last part, hoping that his read of Toshifusa was correct: the man seemed to consider it a foregone conclusion that the Senju would capitulate, meaning that Hashirama was soon to become one of Iesada’s more powerful subordinates. A powerful subordinate indebted to Toshifusa, if he granted Hashirama’s request.

“Very well,” Toshifusa said at last. “But if he attacks anyone else, it’ll be on your head, understand?”

“Of course. Thank you for your generosity,” answered Hashirama as he rose from his bow. “In that case, I will be returning to my clan to discuss the terms of the treaty you have offered. We will send you an envoy with our reply.”

“Ah…alright,” came the uncertain reply. Toshifusa had probably expected Hashirama to simply accept the treaty on behalf of his clan, but he was confident enough in his clan’s power not to be worried. Good.

“The sword, if you please.” Hashirama held out his hand. Looking a little baffled, Toshifusa handed it over. As he took it, Hashirama noted that the blade was caked with dried blood, a fact that shook him nearly as much as Madara’s words. The life of a samurai relied on the sword; Hashirama knew perfectly well that Madara had never been one to neglect his blade.

Hashirama advanced on the samurai guards; they got the message and moved back, releasing Madara’s arms and leaving him to fall forwards into the mud. He caught himself on his hands, listing to one side as one arm appeared to give out. He looked up to see Hashirama offering him a hand to help him to his feet. Take it, thought Hashirama urgently. He hoped Madara was strong enough to walk, or it was going to be a long journey back to the Senju camp – and they needed to get out of there before things with the Hagoromo turned south.

Madara reached out his good arm to grip the offered hand, and Hashirama pulled him to his feet.

\---

One of the things Hashirama really liked about Tōka was that she’d always had an impeccable sense of timing. It wasn’t until they had made it back to where they’d stabled their horses, somehow managed to get Madara seated on Hashirama’s horse, and were well on their way back to the Senju camp that she finally spoke up.

“Is that who I think it is, Boss?”

Hashirama looked at the man in front of him, slumped over in the saddle, snarled mane of hair concealing his face. They’d had to tie him to the saddle to keep him from falling out; Hashirama wasn’t sure he was even still conscious. As the regal leader of the Uchiha clan he was barely recognizable, and Tōka must have only ever seen him a handful of times, but evidently she knew Hashirama well enough to guess the kind of person who could make him turn his back on treaty negotiations. Hashirama nodded.

Tōka whistled softly through her teeth. “What are you planning to tell your brother?”

The question actually startled a laugh out of him. “What do you mean? We’ve just managed to rescue a valuable informant. I’m sure Tobirama will be delighted.”

She honoured that with a raised eyebrow.

Sure enough, when they made it back to the Senju camp, Tobirama was waiting for them in the failing light. “Anija!” he called. “What happened with the talks? Who are you bringing –” he got a closer look at the man on Hashirama’s horse and his eyes went wide. “Is that –”

“Not here!” Hashirama cut him off quickly. He swung himself onto the ground to address his brother in a low voice. “I don’t want the whole camp knowing he’s here. Iesada’s envoy captured him, but they didn’t realize who he was.” Hashirama hoped Tobirama would understand enough from this brief explanation; an argument would probably attract the attention of the Hagoromo’s informants, and it would be inconvenient if they were to catch wind of the identity of his guest.

“The peace talks?”

Hashirama shook his head.

“I see.”

“Help me get him down,” Hashirama told his brother. “Tōka, please have food and medical supplies brought to my tent, but be discreet about it.”

“You’re treating him yourself?” Tobirama asked in surprise.

“Secrecy, remember? Besides, I want to ask him some questions.”

Tobirama regarded the motionless figure on the horse warily. “Alright, Anija. Just be careful he doesn’t slit your throat.” As the man clearly was in no shape to attempt any sort of assassination, Hashirama chose to ignore this and instead started working on the knots binding him to the saddle. Despite his griping Tobirama came to help, and the two of them managed to get Madara free of the ropes and onto the ground, with an arm around each of them to keep him from falling. He was awake now for certain, as he turned his head to give Hashirama a cold stare through half-lidded eyes. He let himself be half-carried the short distance to Hashirama’s tent and set down on the futon where he sat silently, face once again hidden by his hair.

Relieved of his burden, Tobirama hesitated, clearly unhappy about leaving Hashirama alone with an old enemy. “Go on,” Hashirama urged him, as he struggled out of his heavy breastplate with considerable relief. “I’ll send for you if I need anything.” Tobirama nodded in acknowledgement, shot one final glare in the direction of the Uchiha, and departed, leaving Hashirama alone with Madara at last.

“Will you let me look at your injuries?” Hashirama asked him.

Madara regarded him warily, his good arm crossed protectively over his chest. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d rather you just get it over with,” he said.

“I’m not going to kill you! I’m actually pretty good at this, I promise.”

“Why not?”

That question gave Hashirama pause. He could probably think of a dozen strategic reasons to keep Madara alive as a prisoner; but truly he hadn’t been thinking of that when he had decided to help him. The truth was that despite the years and battles between them, Hashirama had leapt at the chance to save him only because he still foolishly considered him a friend. He doubted Madara would trust an answer like that.

“I’m only repaying my debt,” Hashirama told him.

Madara snorted. “As if anyone but you could consider _that_ a debt.”

“Deny it all you want, but I know the truth of what happened that day. Now, are you going to let me treat your injuries or not?”

Madara said nothing, but he dropped his arm and allowed Hashirama to kneel in front of him and tilt his head back to examine the cut at his hairline. The sun had set outside, but Tōka had thankfully thought to have lanterns brought, and they threw off enough light for Hashirama to tell that the wound wasn’t particularly deep. Scalp wounds tended to bleed a lot, but there wasn’t any serious damage there. Hashirama turned his attention instead to Madara’s injured arm, and found the problem to be instantly obvious: his shoulder had been dislocated.

“I need to look at this more closely,” Hashirama said apologetically. Mindful of the swollen joint, he pulled Madara’s tattered robe gently over his shoulder, and was brought up short by the sight of dirty bandages wrapped haphazardly around his chest. Frowning, Hashirama went to take a closer look; Madara let him remove his other arm from the robe, leaving him naked to the waist but for the bandages. Hashirama set about unwinding them, a task made difficult by the blood that had soaked through the layers and dried, leaving them stuck to the raw flesh of Madara’s wound.

When the last layer finally came free, Hashirama sucked in a breath through his teeth. An ugly gash stretched across Madara’s torso, beginning near his collarbone and ending on the opposite side of his body at the base of his ribcage. Judging by length of the cut and the jagged edges of the wound, it must have bled severely; no wonder Madara was in the state that he was.

“You tried to fight like this?” Hashirama asked him incredulously. This at least explained how the most fearsome swordsman Hashirama knew had been so easily defeated by a handful of lackeys. Madara just lifted his good shoulder in a shrug and kept his silence.

Re-bandaging the wound might jar the shoulder, so Hashirama would have to fix that first. Assuming his arm had been dislocated during the scuffle with Toshifusa’s men – and surely even Madara wouldn’t think of starting a fight with one arm out of its socket – the injury was recent enough that it should be fairly straightforward to treat. But although he’d allowed Hashirama to examine his injuries, Madara was clearly still wary, his posture stiff and muscles tense. Replacing the joint was going to be difficult unless he could get Madara to relax a little, but how could he possibly persuade him to let down his guard? Hashirama’s usual friendly rapport seemed woefully inadequate.

He would have to settle for slow and careful, and hope Madara trusted him. “I’m going to put your arm back into place. It’ll feel much better once I’m finished, but it’ll go easier if you can relax.”

Madara let him gently take the arm in question and position the forearm at a right angle to his body. To Hashirama’s surprise, he said quietly, “I didn’t know you were a medic.”

Hashirama jumped on the topic as a chance to distract him. “It’s a bit unusual for a warrior, I know, but I actually have a fair amount of medical training. We used to lose a lot of our people to injury and sickness, so before I became clan leader I made an effort to travel and learn as much as I could about healing. I was even able to recruit a few experts to come back with me and train the doctors here.” As he spoke, Hashirama slowly rotated the arm outwards, watching Madara’s face for signs of pain; but he remained impassive. “I’ve been told it makes me an insufferable patient! Now I always criticize the doctors when they try to treat me.” Now he had to move the upper arm towards him – Madara let out a low grunt of pain through clenched teeth. Hashirama kept up his stream of inane babble, trying to sound calm and confident. “Of course, the part I really like is growing the plants that are used to make medicine. I don’t know if you remember this, but when I was little I really wanted to be a gardener instead of a samurai. Now I’ve finally been able to realize that dream!” Now twist the forearm back against the chest, and – there! The shoulder popped back into place and Hashirama let out a breath in relief. “How does that feel? Can you touch your other shoulder?”

Madara moved his arm experimentally. “It’s an improvement,” he said dryly.

“Don’t move your arm too much! You’ll want to give it some time to heal.” Hashirama rarely obeyed that advice himself and he doubted that Madara would either, but it was at least worth a try. Now for the difficult part: the gash at his chest. From the clotted blood at the edges of the wound, Hashirama guessed the injury to be a couple days old, but it was still bleeding – Madara probably hadn’t given it any opportunity to close. The slash was long, but didn’t seem very deep, cutting through skin and muscle but nothing more vital. Fortunately, the flesh around the wound wasn’t inflamed or hot to the touch, so Hashirama wouldn’t have to do anything drastic. All he had to do was clean out the gash, apply some medicine, re-bandage it properly, and it would most likely heal on its own.

Hashirama turned to the neat stack of boxes brought by Tōka and began to assemble the necessary ingredients. Madara watched silently as he selected a handful of dried plants, placed them into a bowl, and began to crush them into a powder. “This is to help close the wound and prevent it from rotting,” Hashirama explained, as he added a few drops of water to the bowl and mixed the powder into a fine paste. He strongly suspected that Madara didn’t care, but he added anyways, “All these plants were grown in the gardens I keep back home. We’ve got some really wonderful trees growing there now – I could show you sometime.” No response to that, unsurprisingly.

With the medicine prepared, it was time to clean the wound. Hashirama used a cloth soaked in clean water, blood running down his hands as he gently dabbed at the edges of the gash. Madara kept his head tipped back, gazing upwards and breathing steadily through the pain. His teeth were clenched tight, shadows dancing across the sharp edges of his jaw and neck in the flickering light. Once that was finished, it took only a few minutes for Hashirama to spread the paste across the raw edges of flesh and wrap the whole thing in several layers of clean bandaging. Now all that was left was to clean the shallow cut at Madara’s hairline.

“Any other injuries I should know about?” Hashirama asked as he worked.

Madara shook his head, eyes closed as Hashirama cleaned the blood off his forehead. In the glow of the lanterns his features looked proud, even forbidding, like some ancient god of the battlefield. Hashirama had to admire his composure, even literally in the hands of a man who had once come within a hair’s breadth of killing him. Impressive though it was, Hashirama wished he could persuade Madara to let his guard down and regain the easy trust the two of them had once shared – but it was impossible now. Too many years and battles lay between them.

Finished, Hashirama wiped his hands free of blood. “I’m all done,” he told his patient. “There’s food in the boxes over there – please help yourself.”

Madara didn’t move. “What exactly do you plan to do with me, Hashirama?”

“I was planning on just returning you to your clan,” Hashirama replied. “The truce we have with the Uchiha right now only holds because of you. I don’t want the peace to break down if you’ve been replaced as leader.”

That got a dark, humourless laugh. “Hashirama, I am no longer leader of the Uchiha clan. There _is_ no Uchiha clan anymore."

Hashirama froze. “No Uchiha clan? What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve been defeated. Crushed, taken over, scattered to the winds.”

“What? By whom?”

“Hagoromo Iesada.”

Hashirama couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How is that possible? I’ve heard nothing about the Hagoromo invading your lands!”

“Oh, they didn’t fight us openly.” Madara shifted in place, dark eyes glittering with anger. “They allied with us, in fact, against the Nara. Sent our soldiers into the thick of the fighting, let the Nara break their teeth on us. Then when the fighting was over and we were weakened from the battles, they sent their spies to destroy our food stores, to poison our water, and assassinate my generals. We didn’t realize who was behind it until it was too late. Izuna –” his voice faltered, and Hashirama’s heart seized in apprehension. Izuna was the name of Madara’s last surviving brother.

“Izuna suspected before I did, and went to Iesada to find out the truth. I…let him go.” Madara’s voice had dropped to rasping whisper. “Iesada was supposed to be our ally. Izuna took with him five of our best warriors, and Iesada sent me back their heads.”

Hashirama’s voice had lodged somewhere in his throat. “Izuna?” he choked out, afraid to hear the answer.

“Gone without a trace.” Madara raised his head. “I tried to rally what was left of my clan for vengeance on the Hagoromo, but the cowards refused me. The Hagoromo are too powerful, they said, and so they elected to surrender to the treacherous bastards rather than stand and fight. So I left.”

“Who gave you that wound?” Hashirama asked, though he was pretty certain he could already piece together what had happened.

“Who else? Hagoromo’s men. I’ve been trying for – months – to get my hands on the daimyō, but all he does is hole up in that castle of his and send his lackeys out to do his dirty work. I attacked one of his messengers a few days ago hoping for information, but do you know what? They were waiting for me!” Madara bared his teeth in a furious, crazed semblance of a grin. “I must have been playing right into his hands. I slaughtered those soldiers, though it cost me, and I intercepted a message claiming that Iesada was supposed to be here for a negotiation. So here I came, only instead of Iesada, I find – you!”

“That’s why he sent his nephew,” Hashirama murmured. “He knew you were after him.” Iesada must not have warned Toshifusa that he was being hunted; he would regret that decision for certain when he learned how the fool had let Uchiha Madara slip through his fingers.

“His fear is a cold comfort to me.” Madara’s anger of a moment before seemed to drain away, leaving him looking almost unbearably tired. “I have failed, Hashirama. I promised Izuna I would keep him safe, and I failed; I promised I would protect my clan, and I failed; I swore revenge for my brother, but as long as Iesada knows I’m coming I’ll never be able to get to him. The only thing I have left to hope for is death at the hands of an honourable enemy, but it seems you will deny me even that.”

For a long, tense moment Madara held his gaze, until at last Hashirama had to look away. He scrambled for something to say, some comfort he could offer that wouldn’t ring entirely hollow, and came up with nothing.

“Madara,” he said at last, “Things may seem hopeless now, but hear me out. I could help –”

“No,” Madara cut him off. “I don’t want to listen to whatever offer you have in mind. Unless you think your clan would be willing to wage a war against the Hagoromo for my sake?”

Hashirama said nothing.

“As I thought. Then I have nothing more to say to you, Hashirama. Kill me or leave me alone.” Madara moved his head so that his hair once again covered his face, hiding his expression from view.

Hashirama left him alone.


	2. Beginnings

When Hashirama was thirteen, his father, then leader of the Senju clan, decided to send his young son to the Hyūga clan to act as collateral on a peace treaty. An exchange of hostages had been insisted upon by both sides, and as eldest son of the clan leader Hashirama was the obvious choice. At thirteen, Hashirama already understood that a samurai is in control of his emotions at all times, that he always does what is best for his family and for his lord, and that he must be prepared to make any necessary sacrifice. He expressed neither anger nor fear at being sent from his family and into the care of an enemy. He was glad to be a part of this vital treaty, glad that he was able to serve his clan, and glad that the Hyūga had insisted on a firstborn son as their hostage so that Tobirama hadn’t been sent in his place. If he was afraid of what lay ahead, with no way to know if he would ever see his family again; or if he was worried for his little brothers, all alone without Hashirama to protect them – there was no way he could show it.

But Hashirama received a gift from the gods, or so he would later come to see it. At the time, the presence of a second hostage, a boy around his age from the Uchiha clan, seemed more like a curse. The Senju and the Uchiha were hardly on the best of terms: the two clans had been fighting on and off for longer than Hashirama could remember. Still, both had taken advantage of the protection of the rich and powerful Hyūga, who were gearing up for a large-scale conflict with the Kumo clan, and so the two hostages arrived within weeks of each other. Initially they treated each other with wariness and hostility; Hashirama tried to avoid the other boy as much as he could, but to no avail. The Hyūga clan, as was the custom, had been charged with the education of their hostages, and so the two boys were forced to spend time with one another learning tactics, horsemanship, and above all the art of the sword. In his own clan Hashirama had been considered a prodigy, and so he was surprised to find a formidable rival in Uchiha Madara. Competition eventually turned to mutual respect, and then, far from the prejudices of their own clans, respect grew into friendship.

Plus, Madara turned out to be irresistibly easy to tease. It was inevitable that Hashirama should befriend him.

As much joy as Hashirama got out of poking fun at his new friend – and then feigning devastation when Madara tried to retaliate, he fell for that one every time – he knew nothing about Madara’s life before he’d come to be a hostage of the Hyūga. Hashirama’s occasional curious questions about his family were always met with cool deflections. In more than just swordfighting, Madara was already the perfect samurai: he showed no hint of the fear or loneliness that haunted Hashirama, and if he had any worries, he seemed to find them inconsequential. So Hashirama maintained a façade as well, said nothing of the doubts in his heart, and tried not to let himself think of the world beyond the walls of the Hyūga compound.

He was able to play the part well enough, until the day he received the news of his little brother’s death. Little Itama, only nine years old, had been a casualty of a minor uprising on Senju lands. The uprising had been triggered by the harsh taxes demanded by his father, Senju Butsuma, to supply his army with food and equipment for an inconsequential border skirmish. Hashirama received the news of his brother’s senseless death stoically, and politely asked after Tobirama, his only surviving sibling, of whom he was told there had been no word. After thanking the messengers and his host, Hashirama carried on with his day as normal, attended his classes and performed his chores, and then finally hid himself in the gardens to cry.

Madara found him, of course. It took very little cajoling on his part before Hashirama found himself telling him what had happened, and then telling him about how Itama had been the second of his brothers to die before the age of ten, and how pointless and preventable both of their deaths had been. Madara listened silently to this outpouring of frustration and grief, and when Hashirama finally ran out of words he sat down beside him and said, “I understand how you feel. I know what it’s like to lose your brother.”

Then, to Hashirama’s great surprise, he began to talk about his family. It was then Hashirama learned that Madara had once been the eldest of five brothers, before the youngest three had been killed in a failed coup orchestrated by one of his father’s generals. He learned that Madara had felt it was his role to protect them, but had only managed to escape with the eldest of his brothers, Izuna. That although he’d been given no choice in the matter, being sent away from his brother to act as a hostage felt like a second failure. That he hated being separate from his brother, and he missed him constantly.

“What’s your brother like?” Hashirama asked, curious in spite of himself.

“He’s an asshole,” Madara replied instantly, making Hashirama laugh through his tears.

Hashirama confessed that he, too, had one brother left, but that Hashirama wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, staring down at his hands. “I feel so helpless, all the way out here.”

“I know,” said Madara. “All that stuff they teach us, about honour and glory and how you’re supposed to kill or be killed – to be honest, I don’t really care about that. I just want to protect my brother, no matter what. But I’m in line to be the next leader of the Uchiha clan, and if I can just hang onto that, then I’ll change the way things are done.”

“Change things? How?”

Looking into the distance, Madara said, “I think…I won’t bother with defending the family name, or the honour of my clan, or any of that. All of us of the samurai class are so eager to die for honour – for what? It’s impossible to make peace when you know your enemies care more about killing you than then they do about their own lives, or even the lives of their families. If I become clan leader, I’ll fight for what really matters. And if I die, it won’t be for honour; it’ll be to protect the people I care about. That’s what I want to do.”

Hashirama could do nothing but stare in shock as he realized for the first time what extraordinary luck had led him to meet Uchiha Madara. This boy from an enemy clan whose life mirrored Hashirama’s – he thought as Hashirama did, understood how he felt. He could hardly believe there was another person who harboured the same foolish hopes, the same disdain for the values their families held so dear. As the realization sunk in, Hashirama felt the isolation and loneliness that had gripped his heart since his separation from his brothers ease its grasp a little.

“What are you making that face for?” Madara said, frowning at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” said Hashirama, and scrubbed his face on his sleeve. “You just put into words something I’ve been thinking for a long time.”

Though the grief and helplessness still weighed on him heavily, Hashirama found that knowing he wasn’t alone somehow made them easier to bear. From then on he and Madara were practically inseparable, taking every chance they got to talk together about their dreams for the future, their brothers, or whatever happened to be on their minds. Hashirama soon felt that he knew Madara’s heart as well as he knew his own, and could often tell what he was thinking without any words spoken between them.

As the two grew closer, their rivalry on the training grounds only intensified. The swordmaster of the Hyūga was one of the very best: under his tutelage Hashirama was soon able to hold his own against the clan’s veteran samurai; Madara, unwilling to be outdone, improved at the same rate. When they fought, Hashirama found he was able to anticipate his friend’s attacks almost before Madara thought to begin them – but of course Madara could read his counterattacks equally well, and so fighting him often felt like trying to defeat his left hand with his right (“That’s a terrible metaphor”, Madara told him. “You’re right-handed”). Their battles became contests of creativity, with each combatant trying to pull off some surprise that would catch the other off-guard and break through his defenses. By the time Hashirama was fifteen, both of them had gained a reputation for their skill with a sword, and spectators would often gather in the training grounds to watch them fight. In a few more years, they would have been sent to the battlefield to fight the Kumo in the name of their lord, the daimyō of the Hyūga clan, and would no doubt have won great glory as comrades on the front line. But as fate would have it, that would never come to pass.

Weeks before his sixteenth birthday, Hashirama woke in the early hours of the morning to the smell of smoke. Alone in his room, he listened carefully: in the distance, he thought he could hear shouts and, faintly, the clash of steel. He slid out from underneath his blankets as quietly and quickly as he could, tied on his katana and wakizashi, and cautiously slid back the paper screen door. The hallway was empty, but Hashirama could see a flickering light unlike the steady glow of a lantern. Silently he crept down the hall towards the light, moving along the side of the path so as to keep his back to the wall. As he reached the end of the hallway, he saw a shadowy figure moving behind the paper screen door. Hashirama paused, waiting behind the door, and carefully loosened his short sword, the wakizashi, in its sheath. Poised there, he held his breath; the figure behind the screen slid back the door, and Hashirama drew his blade to strike –

“Hey! It’s just me!” Madara leapt back to avoid Hashirama’s sword.

“Madara!” Hashirama hissed. “You scared me! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Madara replied. He was dressed and wearing his swords as well. “The Kumo are here, Hashirama.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know, but there’s fighting in the courtyard, and they’ve set fire to the main building. We have to get out of here, now.”

“Alright. Alright.” Hashirama drew in a shaky breath. “Can we get out the gate?”

Madara shook his head. “Too much fighting in that direction – I could see it from my room. We’ll have to go out the back of the building.”

“There’s a wall in the way!” Hashirama protested.

“If we climb onto the outbuildings, we can jump it.”

That sounded like the type of plan that would result in a few broken bones, but Hashirama supposed it was better than getting hacked to shreds at the gate. “I think I know a way we can get onto the roof. Let’s go,” he said, and started off at a run back the way Madara had come.

The sounds of fighting got louder as they ran, battle cries intermingled with screams and the clashing of swords. Every time they rounded a corner, Hashirama expected them to run into enemy soldiers; but they couldn’t afford to slow down and go cautiously, with the halls lit with the flickering light of flames. Racing through the next corridor, Hashirama skidded to a stop when a blade sliced through the paper screen a sword’s length from his chest; he threw an arm out in front of Madara as a man kicked his way through the wall and advanced on the two boys. No time to turn back – Hashirama drew his sword as Madara, at his side, did the same. The enemy samurai slashed at them, his swing hindered by the narrow hallway, and Hashirama moved forwards to block his strike; using the opening, Madara darted past him to sink his blade into the man’s unprotected shoulder. The samurai howled in pain and went down on one knee. Madara gripped him by the arm and pulled him forwards, letting go of his sword to grab the man’s helmet with the other arm; as he did so Hashirama lunged and slashed the man’s throat. As he choked on blood Madara released his grip, letting the man fall forwards onto the floor.

The two of them stood over the corpse, panting for breath. Remembering his training, Hashirama wiped his sword clean of blood and resheathed it with mechanical movements, then bent down to pull Madara’s sword from the body, fighting back a wave of nausea when it came free with a wet squelch. He turned to offer it to his friend, and found the other boy staring blankly at the man they had killed, eyes unfocused. “Come on!” Hashirama yelled in his ear, and grabbed Madara’s hand to pull him along.

Dragging his friend behind him, Hashirama made for the stairs leading to the upper floors. Madara, thankfully, seemed to snap out of his daze and kept pace with him as they ran past more sounds of combat, dodged another corpse slumped halfway through a door, and finally gained the stairs. The second floor was eerily quiet; the fighting must not have reached the upper levels. Hashirama led them through the empty rooms, navigating his way in the moonlight to a window at the back of house. He slid back the screen over the window and immediately got a facefull of smoke. Coughing, Hashirama stuck his head through the open window and peered out. Through the billowing smoke, he could just make out the sloping, tiled roof below: they would have to climb across the roof and around the building to get to the outbuildings that would lead them over the wall.

“Ready?” Hashirama asked. Madara nodded, arm across his face to shield himself from the smoke. He kept a tight hold on Hashirama’s hand as he stepped carefully through the window and onto the roof below, Hashirama just a step behind him. Backs against the outside of the building, they edged carefully up the slope of the roof. The wind was blowing the smoke into their faces, making Hashirama’s eyes sting; he forced himself to keep watching his feet, knowing a misstep could be fatal.

When they reached the peak of the roof, Hashirama couldn’t hold back a gasp, earning him a lungful of smoke. From their position, they could see that the whole side of the Hyūga estate was in flames, the fire spreading quickly through the wood-and-paper walls. Hashirama clutched his friend’s hand as he looked for the way down – and there was the building he’d been looking for, a storage shed about the height of the outer wall, directly below them and still thankfully free of fire. They should be able to jump from the roof of the house onto the shed, and from there onto the wall and down. But had the shed always been quite so far from the house?

“I’m not sure this was such a good plan,” said Madara with a shaky laugh.

“We can make it,” Hashirama replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

“You first, then.”

Hashirama nodded apprehensively, and with some reluctance released Madara’s hand. Standing here in indecision wasn’t going to accomplish anything except get them burned to a crisp. He took a moment to judge his trajectory – he was going to have to jump at just the right moment – and then took off down the roof at a sprint, praying that he wasn’t going to slip on the tile. He pushed off just before the edge of the roof, flew through the air with his arms flailing, and slammed hard into the roof of the shed, the hilts of his swords jamming painfully into his stomach. The roof felt hot beneath his palms as he picked himself back up, his elbows and knees smarting. One more jump to make and he would be free of the doomed estate – no time for second-guessing. Hashirama crawled up to the peak of the outbuilding roof, gathered himself, and ran again, this time towards the outer wall. One final jump: Hashirama kicked out with his legs, letting his feet hit the wall first to reduce his momentum, but the impact still knocked the air from his lungs even as his hands found the top of the wall. He clung to his hold desperately, trying to keep from slipping as he gasped and coughed in the smoky air, and finally managed to hoist himself onto the ledge.

Catching his breath, Hashirama looked back towards the roof where he’d started, where Madara was crouched, watching him. Seeing that his friend had made it, Madara stood at the peak of the roof and stepped back a pace, gathering himself for the run – and as he made to push off, the roof of the shed collapsed with a deafening roar, flames shooting high into the air.

“_Madara!_” Hashirama screamed. His voice was lost completely to the sound of the fire. Had Madara jumped into the inferno? Hashirama scanned the building desperately, and as the flames engulfing the shed died back down into a steady blaze, spotted Madara’s silhouette still on the roof of the house. Hashirama let out a breath that was half a sob of relief.

Though he’d managed to stop in time, Madara’s path was now blocked, trapping him on the roof. Hashirama watched through the smoke as Madara looked at him on the wall, and then down into the gulf of flame that separated them, then behind him towards the burning house, and finally back at Hashirama. He raised his hand and gave Hashirama a little wave. He was too far away for Hashirama to hear over the sound of the fire, but he knew what his friend was saying. _Go ahead_, said the wave, _I’ll meet you again someday_. Then he turned and slid back down the roof the way they had come, and disappeared from sight.

“Madara,” Hashirama said again, though there was no way his friend could hear him. He knew Madara was right: there was no chance they could meet up again now, not when he had no idea how the other boy would be able to make his way out. That he would manage it somehow, Hashirama had to believe; but he couldn’t wait around for him, not with the estate crawling with enemy soldiers. Both of them had little brothers counting on them to make it home, and so both of them would have to make it somehow, separately. His eyes stinging with tears from the smoke, Hashirama dropped down the other side of the wall and rolled on the soft ground below. He was going to have to stay strong and stay smart if he was going to survive the trip back to his clan.

Against all odds, Hashirama would make it back onto Senju lands in a matter of weeks; but he would never hear from his friend in the Uchiha clan, leaving him wondering for years whether Madara had survived. Wondering whether he had realized the shed was burning, and sent Hashirama ahead of him before the path had become blocked. Wondering if Madara, too, missed the feeling of Hashirama’s hand in his.

\---

His return home brought Hashirama a reunion with his little brother, and, much less welcome, the chance to fight for his clan and earn a name for himself on the battlefield. The enemies of the Senju clan were numerous and ever-changing, as battles for local power flared up and were extinguished, alliances formed and were betrayed, and powerful lords were usurped by their followers. The politics of the samurai class made for a treacherous world, but it was a world that Hashirama, as future head of the Senju clan, had to learn to navigate. The only currency that mattered in this world was military strength, and the only measure of a samurai was counted in the number of heads he collected. Respect had to be earned through violence, and at this, Hashirama excelled.

Among the most feared and dangerous of the warring clans were the Uchiha. An old and powerful family, the clan was led by Uchiha Tajima, a man with a reputation for ruthlessness. Hashirama knew it was only a matter of time before tensions between the Uchiha and the Senju reached a boiling point, and sure enough outright fighting erupted between the two clans within three years of his return. In that time, Hashirama had heard nothing from his former friend. Though he still held hope of one day meeting him again, Hashirama had to face the likely possibility that Madara had died that day in the fires. So he accepted his father’s orders to join the warriors massing against the Uchiha, and tried not to wonder whether he would meet Madara’s beloved brother among the enemy.

The fighting had broken out along the Senju-Uchiha border, a mountainous region capped by heavy forest. The terrain was difficult for battles and even more so for sending supplies. When Hashirama finally arrived at the Senju camp, he found his clansmen already in trouble: cut off from the rest of the world, with their numbers dwindling from relentless enemy attacks, even battle-hardened warriors were succumbing to fear. The Uchiha were demons, Hashirama was told, or were in league with the spirits of the mountain, and couldn’t be defeated by normal men. They moved easily through the dangerous terrain, had no qualms about attacking at night, and worst of all, the battle-worn men spoke of a single warrior in a blue mask who alone had been cutting through the ranks of the Senju like the storm god Susano’o. Hashirama knew all too well that the Uchiha were only human, but he needed a way to demonstrate this to his clanmates. At eighteen, he was already considered to be one of the best warriors in the clan, and so his plan was simple – he would face this mysterious blue-masked samurai and defeat him.

Finding his foe was easy. Hashirama spotted the man almost as soon as battle was joined: he was difficult to miss, with bright blue flames painted on his breastplate and the iron plates of his armour woven with straps of the same colour. The mask was ordinary – standard protection for the face, the same kind Hashirama wore – except for the bright blue paint. He was singling himself out to be challenged, Hashirama thought, but Senju and Uchiha alike gave the man a wide berth, and so he moved through the two armies as if they were water, until he came face to face with Hashirama.

Amidst the chaos of the battle, the two samurai stood with their swords drawn and waited, each sizing up the other. The Uchiha struck first, beginning with a confident overhand swing; Hashirama blocked and retaliated, moving his feet as his arms stung with the strength of the blow. His enemy was wielding a two-handed tachi, a sword that was longer than Hashirama’s katana, and so he had the advantage of reach. But Hashirama had superior speed, and he knew how to exploit the weaknesses in an opponent’s movements to move in close and negate that advantage. He nearly managed it as the enemy samurai tried several rapid-fire attacks, but his strike was foiled as the other man dodged out of reach and covered himself, seeming surprised to find his opponent still standing. Hashirama found his stance and waited once again, trying to predict what his enemy would do next.

The combatants circled each other, the man in the blue mask now moving much more warily. They moved at almost the same moment, swords clashing in the air with a deafening noise, and then darting back to clash again. As Hashirama dodged and parried, dancing out of the range of his attacker and then trying to get in close to strike, he began to feel a strange sense of familiarity. This man’s fighting style – he hadn’t quite fought against it before, but something very like it. Hashirama was reading his opponent’s attacks easily; but more perplexingly, his enemy was also anticipating him. He blinked sweat out of his eyes as the battle dragged on. He waited for the moment after the other man’s swing – there! – and used the opportunity to at last draw in close enough to reach; but his enemy read his motion in time, and managed to reverse his motion to slam the hilt of his sword into Hashirama’s face.

Blindly, Hashirama stumbled back out of his opponent’s reach and tore off his dented mask with his free hand, keeping his sword raised in an attempt to ward off the attack that was surely coming. But the enemy samurai didn’t press his advantage, instead standing in place with his tachi raised. From behind the mask a familiar voice said, “_You!_”.

Hashirama froze. The voice wasn’t quite how he remembered – deeper, and without the childish cadence – but combined with the way he fought, there was no doubt as to the masked man’s identity.

“Madara?”

The samurai reached up and slowly removed his own mask. Behind it was the face of a young man in place of the boy Hashirama had known, black hair framing features that were sharper, more severe. There were shadows underneath his black eyes, but the eyes themselves still had that same steely look that Hashirama knew so well; seeing it now, in this place, turned his legs to water.

“Hashirama,” said Madara, and paused. For a moment he looked unsure, words lost in the years between them. “It’s been a long time.”

There were so many things Hashirama wanted to say to him, had imagined saying to his friend if they ever met again, but now all he managed was, stupidly, “You’re alive!”

Madara looked him up and down, his expression unreadable. “So it would seem,” he said at last. “And it looks like I’m your opponent.”

He seemed on the verge of saying more, but was interrupted by the sound of shouting: The Uchiha were retreating. Caught up in their fight, Hashirama had almost forgotten that a battle was going on around them. Madara turned his head to look for his clanmates, worry for a moment breaking through his stony expression, and then looked back at Hashirama. “I – I have to go,” he said, and turned to run, mask in one hand and unsheathed tachi still in the other.

“Wait!” Hashirama called, but it was too late – Madara was gone.

The chance encounter left Hashirama with a thousand questions, new respect from his fellow samurai, and a broken mask. He hadn’t brought a spare, and didn’t want to take a mask from one of his subordinates, but the bruise swelling on his cheekbone from Madara’s blow spoke to the importance of protecting your face. After taking stock of their most recent losses, Hashirama borrowed an axe, sat on the knotted roots of the old forest growth, and hacked off a thick piece of bark roughly the size of his face. He carved himself a new mask out of the ancient wood: not the best protection, but it was better than nothing. By the time both armies were forced to retreat from the harsh mountain winters, Hashirama had become known as much for his unconventional mask as he was for his feats on the battlefield, and so he would keep wearing it for years afterwards (over Tobirama’s protests that it wasn’t practical, and didn’t match the rest of his outfit besides).

He never did get to ask Madara the questions he’d been saving, but in the years to come Madara was indeed his almost constant opponent. They rarely met face to face again in battle, but as Hashirama was gradually entrusted with more important commands and greater numbers of soldiers, he often found Madara’s influence in the movements of his enemies. He would try to predict what Madara, as an enemy commander, would do – and then he would see the bright blue armour among the ranks of the Uchiha and find out if he’d guessed right. Over the next five years, both of them would develop reputations for tactical brilliance as well as strength in arms, and so the rivalry between the young Uchiha and Senju commanders would start to gain fame. It was during this time, between battles, that Hashirama would be able to pursue his interest in medicine, and would take every opportunity to travel and learn instead of fighting. But all too soon, Senju Butsuma would die in battle against the Uchiha, and Hashirama would take over as leader of his clan at the age of twenty-three.

By the time Hashirama took control of his clan, the situation with the Uchiha clan had become dire. Battles had escalated into all-out war, and the Senju were breaking on the might and power of the Uchiha. The fighting was beginning to sap the resources of the clan at an untenable rate, and as the death toll continued to rise with no end in sight, Hashirama came up with a desperate plan. He knew the Uchiha were not infallible; Uchiha Tajima had made many enemies during his tenure as clan leader, and so the Uchiha were spread thin as well. Hashirama also knew that since Tajima’s death, Madara had assumed leadership of his clan. It was only thanks to Madara’s brilliance as a commander as well as his own fearsome reputation that the Uchiha still wielded the power that they did: his death would almost certainly put an end to the war and ensure Senju victory. Knowing Madara, Hashirama was willing to bet that he would gamble his own life for the chance to kill the leader of the Senju, and claim victory for his own clan and his family. So, ignoring Tobirama’s objections, Hashirama prepared to challenge his former friend one final time.

In the grey light of dawn what remained of the Senju forces massed on a hilltop near their border with the Uchiha. Over the next ridge they could soon see the first rays of sunlight glinting off the armour and weapons of the enemy. As the two armies neared each other, Hashirama called for his clansmen to halt, and rode out ahead of them. As was the custom for warriors looking to gain fame and glory, he approached the enemy and, when he was within earshot, shouted:

“I am Senju Hashirama, son of Butsuma. Is there anyone among you who would face me?”

He waited in the still morning air for an answer, and then, just as he had anticipated, a single warrior in bright blue armour rode out to meet him.

Madara wore his reputation like a cloak, the set of his shoulders imposing, gloved hand resting confidently on the hilt of his sword. He had strapped across his back the Gunbai Uchiwa, giant war fan and symbol of the leader of the Uchiha clan. When he met Hashirama in the no-man’s land between their two armies, he dismounted and planted the Gunbai handle up in the dirt next to him. Hashirama swung himself off his horse as well – both of them were more familiar with fighting on foot – and removed his mask. Madara was too fast and too crafty of an opponent for Hashirama to fight with his vision at all impaired, and so he would have to risk exposing his face. Evidently thinking the same, Madara untied his mask as well and hung it on his saddle before drawing his sword and wordlessly facing Hashirama. His face hadn’t changed much since the first time they’d met on the battlefield – but Hashirama could not afford to be distracted by that line of thinking. Uchiha Madara was nothing more to him now than the leader of his enemy, and a man that Hashirama, for the good of his clan, had to kill. Hashirama drew his sword.

They exchanged no words: both of them understood that this time it would be a battle to the death. At the same moment they rushed each other, swords ringing out in the quiet of the morning. The strength behind each of Madara’s blows was deadly, greater even than the last time they had fought; letting a single strike slip past his guard would likely prove fatal. But Hashirama was stronger now, too, and was able to push his opponent back a step before Madara forced him to dodge and lose the ground he had gained. Just as before, Madara matched him move for move, blocking him at every turn. Unlike their old fights in the training grounds of the Hyūga, the stakes were too high now for Hashirama to try anything risky in the hopes of surprising his enemy – he would have to endure in the hopes that Madara would tire first. He managed to put a scratch through the blue painted flames on Madara’s armour, but Madara quickly retaliated with a slash to the underside of Hashirama’s arm, drawing blood. The combatants danced back and forth, neither able to gain the upper hand.

And then, Hashirama made a mistake.

It was a swing that went just a hair too far, carried a little too much momentum, and left a split-second opening. That opening was more than enough for an opponent like Madara, and sure enough he went for the kill, his blade aimed for Hashirama’s throat. It was too late to dodge or to block; Hashirama could do nothing but watch his death approach – and then – Madara hesitated. It was only for a moment, short enough that an observer might miss it, but it was long enough for Hashirama to duck below the trajectory of Madara’s blade and deliver a hard kick to his knee. As he fell backwards, Hashirama capitalized on his advantage and leapt forwards to press is own knee down onto Madara’s chest, holding him down, and then brought his sword up for a killing blow –

And held it there, frozen in place. He couldn’t complete the swing, and instead held his position, sword aloft, trembling with effort. Below him he could feel Madara’s chest move beneath his armour as he struggled for breath, both of them panting from the exertion. Hashirama had begun this battle completely determined to kill his friend, but now…

“What are you waiting for?” hissed Madara.

Hashirama didn’t move. “You hesitated,” he said.

“I _lost!_” Madara spat.

“You let me win.” That brief hesitation had completely undone his resolve. Had Madara had second thoughts about striking down his former friend? Did that mean Madara still cared for him? Could Hashirama kill him now, knowing that?

Was there really no other choice?

Hashirama flung his sword off to one side into the dirt. Madara’s eyes widened as Hashirama removed the knee from his chest to kneel beside him. “What are we doing, Madara?” he asked. “Have we abandoned all the ideals we used to talk about?”

“We were children, Hashirama. You must know by now that the ideas we had are impossible.”

“Are they?” Hashirama asked him softly. “Don’t you know who we are? We’ve become two of the most powerful people in this world, Madara. If we work together, who’s to say what’s impossible for us?” He extended a hand towards his fallen enemy. “End this fighting. Let Senju and Uchiha agree to a treaty instead.”

Madara looked at the outstretched hand in something like disbelief. “We both know it’s not that simple,” he said.

“I don’t care.” Hashirama kept his hand where it was and watched Madara’s face, hoping he was starting to see indecision take the place of resolve. “Come on, Madara. Do this with me.”

And finally, cautiously, as if fearing some kind of trick, Madara took his hand.

Of course, Hashirama hadn’t fully considered the repercussions of his actions at the time, a fact that Tobirama later pointed out at great length and at a high volume. He couldn’t exactly blame his little brother – Tobirama spent the next several months nearly out of his mind with worry that his brother would be assassinated or overthrown by his subordinates. Sparing the life of an enemy dishonoured Hashirama’s name and by extension, that of his clan. His actions flew in the face of the samurai code, and in addition proved him to be weak and unfit to lead; the Senju clan might not stand to be governed by such a man, and his political opponents could easily take the opportunity to unseat him. But Hashirama managed to hang onto his position, against all odds, for three reasons. The first was that the Senju, though no samurai would admit it, were tired of fighting: they’d had their fill of blood, and were more than happy to return to their families and forget about the battlefield for the time being. The second was that his clan actually liked their young leader, who cared about whether they survived their wounds and put his life on the line to defend them. Hashirama had garnered enough loyalty from his clan to put to rest any dissent before it became a major problem.

The third reason was that, despite all expectations to the contrary, the treaty with the Uchiha actually worked. It took months of difficult negotiations, but in the end the two clans were able to make an agreement that was, if not fully satisfactory for either, at least better than killing each other. And when the two clan leaders finally met to sign the treaty, Senju and Uchiha both celebrated and drank together like brothers. Best of all, Hashirama finally got the chance to speak with Madara again – in fact, they spent the entire night drinking and talking, surrounded by their increasingly inebriated clanmates. Watching Madara laugh at something he’d said and tip back a cup of sake, Hashirama thought that even if he lost his life as a result of the treaty, it would have been worth it for this single night.

Throughout the years, Hashirama would see very little of his one-time friend; after all, they both had clans to lead, and separate problems to deal with. However, he never forgot the fleeting instant of hesitation that had saved his life and nearly cost Madara his. The rest of the world believed that Hashirama had won that fight, and spared Madara out of friendship and mercy; only the two of them knew that truly, it had been the other way around. Madara had had everything to lose by staying his hand, but, whether he’d planned to or not, he had anyways. And Hashirama always felt it was a debt he could never truly repay.


	3. A New Alliance

Dawn was breaking. Cold grey light was beginning to seep between the branches of the trees, outlined like skeletal hands against the sky.

Hashirama’s clothes were soaked through, again.

He had spent what he now realized must have been the better part of the night pacing his way through the edge of the forest near the Senju camp – not far enough to get lost, but enough to distance himself a little. The rain had stopped sometime earlier in the evening, but walking through the damp undergrowth had gotten Hashirama soaked anew. He had wanted time to think, to clear his head; walking among the trees was usually the best way to do that. But tonight Hashirama had walked for hours without feeling much better.

He had two problems to consider. The first and most pressing was the threat of the Hagoromo: it was clear Iesada could not be persuaded to leave the Senju alone, and so Hashirama was left with two choices. He could refuse the Hagoromo’s demands and fight back if they made good on their threats of invasion, but Toshifusa had, unfortunately, been right about one thing – the Hagoromo were far superior in resources and numbers. It would be a difficult fight to win in the best of circumstances, and if the Hagoromo succeeded in their campaign to conquer the Uzumaki, the Senju would be in serious trouble. Of course, Hashirama could simply agree to their terms, ally his clan with the Hagoromo, and become Iesada’s subordinate. Choosing this option would likely prevent a great deal of bloodshed, but after hearing Madara’s story, the thought of bowing to Iesada made Hashirama uneasy.

Which brought him to his second problem: Uchiha Madara.

Despite the urgent danger his clan was in, it was Madara who had occupied most of his thoughts tonight; instead of considering his course of action, Hashirama had been lost to reminiscence. He wanted to help his former friend, but what Madara asked for was impossible. The Senju might, just barely, be able to defend their own lands against the Hagoromo, but to conquer them and kill their leader – that was out of the question. Even if it had been within his power, there was no way Hashirama could sacrifice the lives of his clanmates to feed Madara’s vengeance. He could take Madara’s other suggestion, and grant him death by the sword…but that was equally impossible. Hashirama refused to consider it. Then, he could just let the Uchiha go; but he had a feeling Madara would be driven to pursue his vengeance alone, and end up at the mercy of the Hagoromo yet again. Then what? Keep him as a prisoner forever? Hashirama didn’t care much for that idea either.

Then again, when Hashirama had realized who it was Toshifusa’s men had captured, he’d thought he might have an opportunity. His hope had been that Madara might agree to join his clan with the Senju in a fight against their common enemy, the Hagoromo; now, however, he knew that Madara had broken with the Uchiha. But perhaps his original idea still had some potential…

As the rising sun sent fingers of sunlight through the clouds, a plan at last began to clarify in Hashirama’s mind. The idea he had was dangerous – it would mean sacrificing the peace he’d worked so hard to build, and risking the annihilation of his clan – but if it worked, it could save them from the Hagoromo and keep Madara by his side. And his plan could work, Hashirama was certain of it. Convincing everyone involved to go along with it, on the other hand, was going to be a challenge; but then, he had plenty of practice at persuading Tobirama to join him in his escapades both genius and ill-fated, so he was sure to succeed this time. As for Madara…well, his powers of persuasion had worked once before. Maybe he would get lucky a second time.

So decided, Hashirama finally turned back in the direction of the camp. He was going to have to call a meeting with his advisors, Tōka and Tobirama, to discuss the matter of the Hagoromo, and he wanted Madara to be there as well. But first, Hashirama needed to run a quick errand, and then he’d have to find himself some breakfast. Actually, he should probably bring some breakfast to his tent for Madara, too, although he hadn’t quite worked out what he was going to say to him – after the way they had parted the night before, the prospect of facing him this morning was a little daunting. Hashirama hoped Madara wouldn’t flat-out refuse the invitation to the meeting. But regardless, he couldn’t avoid going back to his tent: he badly needed to grab some dry clothes.

\---

A couple hours and a change of clothes later, Hashirama found himself facing two trusted generals and a one-time enemy warlord. Madara hadn’t refused his invitation, to his relief, and had even accepted breakfast, though he’d looked a bit surprised to see Hashirama return, soaking wet and laden down with food. Clean of blood and wearing a fresh kimono and hakama, Madara already looked completely different than he had last night – or maybe it was his bearing. The wounded and defeated man from yesterday had been replaced; now, even seated, he looked commanding and formidable. Instantly recognizable, despite the long hair.

The two others attending this meeting, Tōka and Tobirama, were the only people in the Senju camp who knew of Madara’s presence aside from Hashirama himself, or so he hoped. His plan relied on catching the Hagoromo by surprise; secrecy was vital, and so for now, he could only consult these three people. He could only hope that he would manage to bring them to his side.

“Anija, will you finally tell me what exactly the Hagoromo said to you yesterday?” Tobirama, it seemed, was anxious to get straight to the issue. He was making a point of ignoring Madara’s presence, acknowledging him only with a cool glance as he walked in; unsurprisingly, he wasn’t lingering on pleasantries.

_It’s ridiculous to be nervous_, Hashirama reminded himself. After all, it was only his brother, his close confidante, and his former best friend who occasionally tried to kill him. He cleared his throat.

“What happened was that Iesada sent his nephew in his place to negotiate – I mean, not negotiate, exactly, he just handed me the same terms we’d already been sent. But he at least made it very clear that the Hagoromo wouldn’t consider an equal partnership. The terms are: swear loyalty to Iesada or face invasion.”

Tobirama crossed his arms. “So they sent us an ultimatum, not a peace treaty.”

“So it seems.” Hashirama looked at Tōka. “I’d like to hear your opinion, though. Do you think it’s possible for us to talk our way out of this?”

“Honestly, no,” Tōka replied, flicking a strand of hair out of her face. “My impression was that the Hagoromo don’t care much what we decide. They think they can crush us easily, so why would they bother negotiating a treaty with us? If we surrender, it’s easier for them, but if we don’t, they can just take what they want.”

“My thoughts as well,” said Hashirama.

“What, then, Anija?” asked Tobirama. “Do you plan to make us all Iesada’s subjects?”

“No,” said Hashirama, and, stealing a glance at Madara, continued, “I don’t think the Hagoromo can be trusted. I’ve learned that they recently betrayed their alliance with the Uchiha clan, and used the opportunity to conquer the region and bring the Uchiha under their control.”

Tobirama and Tōka exchanged surprised looks; Madara didn’t react. “But we haven’t heard anything from our western border,” said Tōka.

“Are you really certain of your…source?” asked Tobirama, aiming a pointed look at Madara.

“_Yes_, Tobirama, I’m certain. Given this new information, and considering that their terms haven’t changed, it’s my opinion that peace with the Hagoromo is, unfortunately, impossible.”

“Finally,” Tobirama said dryly.

“No offense, Boss, but it was a pretty long shot,” added Tōka.

Hashirama sighed. In truth, he hadn’t ever held out that much hope for the treaty either; but it was his duty as leader of the clan to make every possible effort to avoid war. Now, it seemed, that option no longer existed.

“We agree, then?” His advisors nodded. “In that case, the problem we need to discuss is this: how do we hold out against a clan with much greater numbers and resources?”

“We need allies,” Tōka suggested.

“I agree, of course, but what daimyō would agree to take our side? It’s clearly advantageous to ally with the more powerful clan, unless they themselves are being threatened by the Hagoromo.” Hashirama waited a moment for other suggestions, but none were forthcoming; he could tell by the look in Tobirama’s eyes that his brother had already guessed he had a plan. Hashirama took a deep breath. “With this in mind, I propose that we ally ourselves with the Uzumaki and Uchiha clans.”

Madara looked up sharply as Tōka and Tobirama both began talking at once.

“But I thought you just said –”

“Anija, what makes you think –”

Hashirama held up a hand for silence, and as the protests trailed off, said, “Hear me out. The Uchiha surrendered under the threat of invasion, which means that even though the Hagoromo control their land, their military power hasn’t been wiped out. Furthermore, the Hagaromo can’t have moved large numbers of troops into Uchiha territory, or we would have heard about it. That means that they must have only a skeleton crew, probably all at Kamachi.” This was the castle town of the Uchiha where Madara and the majority of his samurai lived; the seat of power of the clan. “We could easily overthrow the occupation, gather the Uchiha samurai, and then rendezvous with the Uzumaki in the east to battle the Hagoromo as a united force. With the strength of our three clans combined, I believe we stand a fighting chance.”

Frowning at him, Tobirama said, “That might be possible in theory, but don’t forget that the Uchiha did surrender to the Hagoromo in the first place. Who says they’ll be willing to fight with us against them now?”

“They will fight.” At the sound of Madara’s voice, Hashirama actually jumped a little; he hadn’t really expected his support, particularly not so soon. “The people of my clan are not fond of surrender,” Madara continued. “They did so in this case because the alternative was certain death. If the Uchiha chose submission over honourable defeat, it was because they still had hope for the future.” He sounded disdainful. “Bring them hope, bring them an actual chance of survival, and they will fight with you.”

“Very well,” said Tobirama, sounding skeptical, “but why should we go to the trouble of rescuing the Uchiha? If the Hagoromo are truly as ruthless as you say, Anija, I’m sure we could persuade some other clan to join us. Even just the Uzumaki might be enough to make a difference.”

Hashirama had known he was going to ask that question, and had his answer well prepared. “It has to be the Uchiha, Tobirama. For three reasons.” Hashirama ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. “First of all, geography: we have the Uchiha to the west, the Uzumaki to the east, and the Hagoromo to the north. The Hagoromo will almost certainly try to hem us in by attacking from more than one border – that’s why we’ve been worrying about the Uzumaki falling, because then we would be vulnerable to attack from the north and east. We never thought we might be attacked from the west instead, but now that we know the Hagoromo control the Uchiha lands, we have to consider that an immediate danger. The only way to protect ourselves is to retake the region.

“Second, the Uchiha were recently allied with the Hagoromo, which means that they are acquainted with Iesada’s strategies. That kind of information is invaluable for warfare, and impossible to get anywhere else. There’s no way our spies could get as much detail as we could get from the Uchiha. That’s why, even if not a single samurai joined our ranks, having the Uchiha on our side would be a huge advantage.

“Finally, there’s one more unique talent of the Uchiha, one that we absolutely need. As you know, they are one of the only clans that builds and utilizes cannons.”

“Cannons?” Tōka interjected, her expression skeptical. “We never found them particularly troublesome when we faced the Uchiha in battle – arrows were always more effective. I mean, there’s a reason hardly anybody uses them.”

“True,” conceded Hashirama, “but I’m not talking about using cannons against a group of warriors on a battlefield. Iesada’s stronghold is a castle with stone fortifications, which means if we want to avoid a long siege, we need cannons to break down his walls.”

There was silence for a moment as Hashirama’s words sunk in. Finally, Tobirama said, “You’re not talking about just defending our borders. You’re actually planning to conquer the Hagoromo as well.”

Before Hashirama could reply, Madara spoke. “You have no choice but to do so. Haven’t you realized it already? Hagoromo Iesada has more ambition than can be satisfied by conquering a few insignificant clans – he intends to bring the entire country under his dominion. Day by day he gets closer to realizing that ambition. Do you think you can defend your borders indefinitely? Either you kill Iesada now, or you let him amass more resources and more power until you can no longer stand against him.”

Though he had answered Tobirama, Madara was addressing Hashirama, dark eyes focused intently on him. Hashirama wasn’t sure what to make of this statement: on the one hand, what he’d seen and heard of the Hagoromo certainly fit with Madara’s assessment; but on the other hand, he couldn’t ignore the fact that Madara was out for revenge. Persuading the Senju to go after Iesada instead of just defending their borders would give him the perfect opportunity. Hashirama had been hoping he would see that – he needed Madara to agree to his alliance – but could his words really be trusted?

Trustworthy or not, Madara seemed to be supporting Hashirama’s plan, which was all he’d been hoping for anyways. Hashirama took the opportunity to barrel onwards. “Madara is right: we can’t afford a protracted border war, and our allies won’t be able to help us if they’re too busy fighting the Hagoromo on their own lands. Our best chance of success is to unite our forces, take the battle to Iesada, and defeat him decisively.”

“If we combine our armies into one force, the Hagoromo will be able to face us with their full strength, too,” Tōka pointed out.

“Not if we split their armies first,” Hashirama replied. “We can accomplish that by setting up a couple of diversions. First, once we refuse their terms, the Hagoromo will be expecting resistance from us here, at the border. We’ll give them what they expect, and they will have to send some number of troops to oppose us. Tobirama, I’d like you to take command of our forces, and lead them on a controlled retreat. Don’t face the Hagoromo head on, and be careful not to lose too many of our troops, but put up a convincing enough fight that Iesada thinks he can win if he just throws more soldiers at us. Do your best to drain his resources, pick off his men, and generally be as annoying as possible.” Hashirama felt this assignment was very well suited to his younger brother.

“Does this mean I get to be the one to tell Iesada where he can stick his treaty?” Tobirama asked, and at Hashirama’s answering nod he actually allowed himself a satisfied grin. Hashirama mentally congratulated himself at successfully sweetening the deal – he knew how to get Tobirama on his side.

“The second diversion?” Tōka prompted.

“Right, yes. The second diversion will be the Uchiha. Madara and I will take a group of samurai and travel back to the Uchiha stronghold, where we will overthrow whatever retainer Iesada has left in charge there. Iesada will have to send troops to retake the area, and we will meet him with another false defense, using a small number of warriors to draw his armies as far from his castle as possible. Then, while our sham defenses keep Iesada distracted, the bulk of our forces will join with the Uzumaki, smash through his armies on the eastern side, and take his stronghold before he can reunite his armies to oppose us.”

Tobirama rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s pretty risky, don’t you think? What if the Hagoromo crush my resistance and take control of our lands before you make it back with reinforcements?”

“And what if the Uzumaki don’t agree to the alliance?” added Tōka.

“Uzumaki Mito is a clever leader, or so I’ve always heard. The Uzumaki have already held out against the Hagoromo for longer than anyone expected, but if they don’t accept our help, it’s only a matter of time. I’m certain they’ll be willing to work out some sort of agreement as long as we offer enough additional strength. As for the risk –” Hashirama shrugged. His plan was a bit of a gamble, but Hashirama had always been a gambling man – though the stakes for this game were higher than any he’d played for before. “It’s not like there’s any safe path we can take. It’s either move decisively now, or wait for Iesada to consolidate his power and destroy us. This way, in one move, we eliminate the threat, gain two new allies, and secure our borders, all while minimizing our own losses.”

His pitch completed, Hashirama watched the faces of his audience and waited. Tōka looked thoughtful – no doubt she was evaluating the weaknesses in his plan, deciding whether it was worth it to shore them up. Tobirama had his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted in a frown. There was no way he was happy about Hashirama’s proposed alliance with the Uchiha, and so he was probably trying to come up with some other alternative. Madara’s face was unreadable.

It was Tōka who finally broke the silence. “If the Hagoromo realize we’re the ones responsible for taking back the Uchiha territory, they might increase the pressure on us here instead of sending troops out west. If we want to split their forces, we should try to make it seem like a rebellion from the Uchiha themselves, or maybe another clan making a grab for power.”

“We have to keep our alliance with the Uchiha a secret,” Hashirama agreed. “I think as long as we travel without banners or decorated armour, we can hide our involvement – I doubt Iesada will guess that the Senju are the ones invading Uchiha territory, not when we’re already at war.”

“The timing will be critical,” said Tobirama. “How quickly can the Uchiha assemble their armies?”

“It will take some time,” Madara answered. “Those samurai who did not wish to be pressed into service by the Hagoromo will probably have retreated back into the mountains. Recalling them will be a matter of several weeks, maybe a month.”

“That’s too long. What if the Uzumaki have fallen by then?”

“We’ll move to support the Uzumaki as soon as we secure the Uchiha territory,” Hashirama cut in. “The Uchiha won’t need us to gather their forces. We can take our samurai, whatever troops we can get from the Uchiha immediately, move east and shore up the Uzumaki defenses. The bulk of the Uchiha forces can meet us later – they’re needed for the assault on Iesada’s castle.”

Tobirama folded his arms. “And if said forces fail to materialize?”

“The Uchiha have as much to lose as you, Senju,” Madara said, dangerously quiet. “If we promise you an army, you will have an army.”

Hashirama met Madara’s eyes. “Will you agree to this alliance, then?” Madara lowered his head in acknowledgement, and Hashirama breathed a sigh of relief. “Tōka, Tobirama? What do you say?”

“I say it’s a bit of a crazy plan,” said Tōka, with shadow of a smile on her face, “but I’m in.”

She and Hashirama both looked at Tobirama, who shrugged and said, “I have my concerns, obviously, but I have to admit the Uchiha and the Uzumaki are our two most likely allies. I suppose a move like this is better than having our armies slowly ground into dust by the Hagoromo, so yes. I’m in favour.”

Since this was a serious meeting for a dire situation, Hashirama suppressed the triumphant grin that was threatening to break out on his face and managed to nod gravely instead. “Our course is set, then. Tobirama will take command of our forces here, and will inform Iesada of our decision not to side with him. Tōka, you will return to the city and oversee the forces we still need to raise in preparation for war. Madara and I will lead the mission to overthrow the Hagoromo and free the Uchiha.”

When no objections to these orders were raised, Hashirama got to his feet. He had preparations to make in order to set this plan in motion, and the sooner the better. The others rose as well, Madara giving him one last cool, appraising look before turning and stalking out of the tent. Hashirama made to follow him, but was stopped by Tobirama, who said, “I’d like a word, actually, Anija.”

“Of course, Tobirama,” he replied, though his stomach sank in foreboding. Stupid of him to think it would be that easy.

Some of his feelings must have shown on his face, because Tōka sounded amused as she said, “That’s my cue to leave.” At Hashirama’s answering nod, she smirked at him over Tobirama’s shoulder and fled, leaving him alone to deal with his brother.

“What’s on your mind?” Hashirama asked, although he thought he could guess.

“I was just wondering, if Madara is the leader of a conquered clan, what exactly was he doing out here, in Senju lands?" Hashirama made to answer, but Tobirama kept talking. “Maybe he was deposed by the Hagoromo, but he spoke as if the surrender was not his idea. It seems to me like he might have been kicked out by his own clan.”

Hashirama sighed. “It’s not like that, exactly.”

“’Not exactly’? Come on, Anija. You’ve insisted that we need the Uchiha – fine. But why do we need _him_?”

“He’s still an experienced and respected leader, and someone the Uchiha are used to following. Would you rather start a power struggle among the Uchiha samurai? We don’t have time for that, as you pointed out.”

“And how can we be sure they’ll follow him?”

“Because he’s the one who holds the agreement with us.”

Tobirama gave him an exasperated look. “By that logic we could pick anyone to be the leader of the Uchiha.”

“We still need someone with experience leading the clan. Why are you so adamant that it shouldn’t be Madara?”

His brother crossed his arms and turned his head, not meeting Hashirama’s eyes. “Because –” he huffed out an angry breath. “It just seems to me that whenever _Madara_ is involved, you tend to make some kind of stupid and reckless decision.”

“Oh, Tobirama.” Hashirama’s frustration with this little brother evaporated. He remembered Tobirama’s fear in the weeks following the duel with Madara, his certainty that his last remaining brother would be taken from him. “The treaty I made with Madara worked, you know.”

“I know, Anija. I just don’t get why you feel like you need to protect him.”

There was no point in trying to explain what Madara had done for him – Tobirama hadn’t been there when they were children, and had been too far away to realize what happened in that fateful fight. He wouldn’t believe what he hadn’t seen himself. “Just trust me, Tobirama. Please?”

Tobirama looked about the way he did when forced to drink one of Hashirama’s medicinal concoctions. “I do trust you, alright? I just don’t like the idea of you going off into Uchiha territory with him, and with nobody to watch your back.”

“I’ll be fine. Madara wants to get back at Iesada as much as we do, remember? More, in fact.” Hashirama put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But I’ll be careful, Tobirama. I promise.”

“You’d better, or I swear you’ll never hear the end of it from me,” said Tobirama, resigned. “Well, go on. I have to go see what I have to work with for this sham defense, and I know you want to go talk with him.”

Hashirama grinned at him. “Thanks, Tobirama! I’ll see you later, then,” he said, and fled, Tobirama’s long-suffering sigh following him out of the tent.

Back in his own tent, he found Madara sitting seiza, waiting for him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hashirama told him cheerfully. “I’ve got something for you.” Grinning, he knelt opposite Madara to offer him a long bundle wrapped in fabric. A little warily, Madara accepted the parcel and unwrapped it to reveal his tachi, the blade gleaming in the low light of the tent.

“I had it cleaned and sharpened for you,” Hashirama told him. He’d picked the sword up from Tōka, who’d brought it back to camp for him, then given it to his swordsmith that morning before the meeting. “I can have the hilt re-wrapped too, if you like, and have a new sheath made.”

Madara grasped the sword by the hilt carefully, as if remembering how to hold it, and brought the blade up to examine it. Hashirama watched a little anxiously as Madara ran his thumb along the length of the blade, then gently drew a fingernail against the edge, testing its sharpness. Finally, he laid the sword back down into its fabric wrappings. “…Thank you,” he said.

Hashirama beamed. “It was no trouble! Let me know if you have any special preferences for the sheath, and I’ll order it right away so you can wear the sword when we set out. Of course, you’re also welcome to look through our armoury and use whatever you’d like, but I thought you’d prefer to use your own sword.” He was talking too much again – Madara was just regarding him silently. Hashirama cleared his throat. “Now that that’s sorted, I’d like to check that wound on your chest again to make sure it’s closing up properly, if that’s alright with you. How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

Getting to his feet, Hashirama looked around for his box of medical supplies, finding it forgotten in a corner. “Thanks for your support back there,” he said as he bent down to search for the bandages. “I’m so glad you agreed to the alliance! Although, honestly, I was kind of surprised.” He cringed even as the words left his mouth. _Why_ could he never learn when to stop talking?

“Surprised?” came Madara’s voice from behind him. “Why should you be? I told you my terms, and you proposed a plan that would meet them. I will admit I didn’t expect you to really go to war with the Hagoromo, but well – I’m not stupid. I doubt I’ll get a better opportunity to take down Iesada.”

“Ah, I – I’m glad,” said Hashirama, floundering.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you, Hashirama.” Concerned, Hashirama stopped was he was doing to turn and look at Madara, who unfolded himself from his crouch gracefully, despite his injury, and stood. Hashirama straightened to look Madara in the eye as he approached.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Let’s say your little plan works.” Madara’s eyes were narrowed, his gaze piercing. “You bring your armies to Iesada’s doorstep, and he finally decides to take you seriously. He offers you a deal – you leave him alone, and he’ll leave you alone. Maybe he sends you a few hostages to show that he’s serious. Do you take that deal?”

“Well, it’s not just up to me,” Hashirama said, scrambling to gather his thoughts. “It would depend on what my allies decide – that’s you and Uzumaki Mito, hopefully. And probably on how costly it would be to go ahead with the assault, and how likely I think the Hagaromo would be to keep their word.” Madara gave him a flat stare, clearly unimpressed with this prevaricating. Hashirama bit the inside of his lip. “But if I decide that it’s the best thing for my clan, then yes: I would take Iesada’s offer.”

“Then you should know that I will never agree to such a deal.” Madara stepped forwards. He wasn’t quite as tall as Hashirama, but even so his presence was intimidating; Hashirama found he couldn’t look away. “I will have my revenge at any cost.”

“What about your clan?” Hashirama blurted.

“They mean nothing to me, not anymore.”

“But earlier, you spoke for them! You defended their decision!”

Madara scoffed. “I _understand_ their decision; that doesn’t mean I can forgive it. But your plan needs the Uchiha, so I’ll gladly lead them again, if only to use them for my own ends. I’ll dance to your tune, Hashirama, if it gets me within striking range of Iesada – but know this.” He paused, and Hashirama held his breath. “Deny me my vengeance, and that vengeance will fall on you and your entire clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my made-up place names.


	4. Kagami

In the early morning light, just a short walk away from their temporary camp, Hashirama watched Madara cut through the air with a wooden practice sword. His friend had acknowledged his presence with the barest glance in his direction, and then ignored him to continue his training, bringing the wooden sword above his head to slice downwards in an overhand strike. He was repeating the same move in a steady rhythm, breathing in time with his strikes, his movements graceful and carefully controlled. Hashirama was familiar with this type of training: it was an exercise meant to improve strength and speed, both of which Madara needed to rebuild as he recovered from his injury.

Three weeks had passed since Hashirama had first encountered Madara at the border town, but most of that time had been taken up by hard trekking through the mountains of the Uchiha lands. Their plan relied on surprise, and so the Senju force – hand-picked by Hashirama, and numbering only eighty samurai and one hundred ashigaru, or foot soldiers, in total – was hiking through the mountains instead of taking the main roads, split into smaller groups in the hopes of passing for ordinary travellers. The treacherous path and the need to avoid attention had forced them to travel on foot instead of riding. Their slow pace had bought extra time for Madara’s wound to heal; on the other hand, the constant hiking could hardly have been beneficial. Still, his movements now looked clean and effortless to Hashirama’s appraising eye. Admiring the fluid way he raised the sword, Hashirama thought his friend must be almost completely recovered – and just in time, for they were approaching the end of their journey.

“Hey, Madara,” he called, interrupting his friend’s practice. Madara paused, looking vaguely annoyed.

“To what do I owe the honour, Hashirama?”

Hashirama grinned and held up the wooden practice sword in his hand. “I came to see if you’d be up for a sparring match.”

“Oh?” Though Madara’s expression remained studiously blank, Hashirama thought he could detect a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Very well. I could use the practice, I suppose.”

“Excellent!” Hashirama stepped into the clearing where Madara had been training and gave his sword a few experimental swings, flicking his wrist back and forth lazily. “You’re still healing, so I’ll go easy on you.”

“Come now, Hashirama. At least make this match worth my while.” As he spoke, Madara brought his sword into a guard position, two hands on the hilt. Hashirama did the same, sliding his feet into a fighting stance.

“Alright, but don’t be disappointed if you can’t land a hit on me,” he said, stepping carefully to the right. Madara mirrored his movements, watching him closely.

“You’ve never disappointed me in such a way before.” The two combatants circled one another slowly, feet shuffling on the rocky ground, each waiting for an opportunity to strike. Hashirama kept his eyes on Madara’s chest, knowing that the flex of muscles there would signal his movement first.

“There’s a first time for everything,” said Hashirama, and attacked, lunging forwards with his sword held across his body. Madara surged forwards to meet him; at the instant their swords met with a loud crack of wood, Hashirama changed the angle of his attack to slide past Madara’s defense. Madara twisted his body to avoid the hit and retaliated by forcing Hashirama’s sword up, then disengaging and, with lighting speed, slicing at his chest. Hashirama slid one foot back in a half turn and brought his sword down in time to block, gritting his teeth at the impact. He stepped backwards again to gain space, but Madara followed him, trying to push his sword back; Hashirama fell back and spun around, hoping Madara’s own force would knock him off balance, but he recovered in time to block Hashirama’s next blow. Hashirama leapt back from his opponent’s answering thrust and put some distance between them.

Fast though it had been, that exchange had been a little tentative, both of them trying to gauge the other’s strength. Though it had been years since they’d last fought, Madara’s fighting style still felt familiar, and despite his injury his attacks still held the same intensity and focus. But now, unlike on the battlefield, Hashirama wasn’t risking life and limb, and so he could afford to have a little fun. He faked a lunge and, when Madara moved to block, drew back and sliced at his abdomen, but Madara read the movement in time to block and strike back.

They danced back and forth across the clearing, exchanging rapid-fire blows. Hashirama threw himself into the ebb and flow of the fight, moving in time with the rhythm of Madara’s attacks, trying to feel the way his opponent’s momentum and weight shifted; but Madara was a skilled and crafty fighter, difficult to anticipate and nearly impossible to catch off-balance. Hashirama tried a risky spin that nearly broke through, pressed his advantage – and was foiled once again as Madara leapt back.

The two combatants began to circle each other again, now breathing heavily. Sweat trickled down the back of Hashirama’s neck as he watched and waited for Madara’s move. This time, finally, it was Madara who broke the stalemate, attacking with a brutal overhand strike that Hashirama barely turned aside; and with that, they were back in the fray.

Minutes passed with neither fighter gaining the upper hand. Madara had to be tiring – Hashirama’s arms were beginning to ache with effort, and his breath was coming in gasps – but he wasn’t slowing, forcing Hashirama back on the defensive. Determined not to give in, Hashirama dodged a strike by dropping to the ground, took one hand off the hilt of his sword, and pushed up against the ground to spring to his feet. Wielding his sword one-handed, he tried a thrust at Madara’s chest; Madara spun to avoid the unexpected attack, putting his back to Hashirama for a dangerous moment – Hashirama slid one foot forwards, stretching his arm out to make the most of his opportunity, but too late. Madara’s sword came back around in time to halt the strike, and now Hashirama was precariously off-balance. No time to withdraw; Madara was turning to the side to strike back, and so Hashirama lunged in close to trap their swords between them, twisting his wrist to lock their wooden blades together. He managed to get in one hit to Madara’s collarbone with the hilt of his sword, and then Madara, who still had a two-handed grip on his own sword, pulled hard and sent Hashirama’s practice sword flying out of his hands, and in the next breath had his sword pressed to Hashirama’s throat.

They both froze, panting. Madara’s face was so close Hashirama could see the beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, dampening the hair falling into his face. His eyes were wide, almost shocked – and then, suddenly, his face broke into a triumphant grin. The delight on his face was so genuine that Hashirama, with a sword at his neck, couldn’t help but smile back. A little dizzily, Hashirama wondered how many years it had been since he’d last seen his friend smile like that.

“I yield,” said Hashirama, breathless. Madara stepped back a pace at last and lowered his sword. Hashirama clasped his hands together, gave Madara a bow to acknowledge his victory, and came up still grinning like an idiot. His heart was still pounding from the fight, though he’d finally managed to catch his breath. “That was fantastic!”

“It wasn’t bad,” Madara replied. His smile had faded a little, but he still looked awfully pleased with himself.

“Oh, come on! Surely you’re not used to having that kind of match every day back with the Uchiha.”

“No,” Madara admitted. Then, examining his practice sword as if the plain wood had suddenly become particularly interesting, he added, “There’s nobody quite like you.”

Hearing that brought a warm feeling to Hashirama’s chest, and drove whatever he’d been planning to say next completely out of his head. “We should do this again,” he blurted.

Madara shrugged, studiously casual. “Sure,” he said, “Assuming we survive the next few days.”

Right – they were in the middle of an important mission. Hashirama wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his kimono and went to retrieve his practice sword, lying where it had fallen a few paces away. “I’d say there’s a good chance of that, assuming your clan doesn’t have any big surprises for us.”

“…Of course,” said Madara. “Let’s get going, then.” He turned back in the direction of their camp, leaving Hashirama to follow, wondering at that strange reply.

\---

It wasn’t until later in the day that Hashirama got an explanation. As the disguised warriors hiked along the winding mountain trail, Madara drew abreast of him and asked, “Could I speak with you, Hashirama?”

“Of course!” Hashirama’s surprise at this request quickly gave way to concern. Madara had mostly kept to himself during the trip thus far despite Hashirama’s attempts to draw him out; whatever problem he wanted to discuss must be something major to force him to confide in Hashirama. But, on the other hand, it had to be a good sign that Madara had chosen to speak with him, without any coaxing, even.

Madara waited until the Senju guards ahead of them were out of earshot before he continued. “Before we arrive, you should know that…well…” he scowled at the dirt path under his feet. “You should be aware there’s a…. possibility the Uchiha might not accept me as leader.”

Whatever Hashirama had expected, this surely wasn’t it. “A possibility?” he repeated, trying to conceal his surprise. “What do you mean?” It wasn’t like he hadn’t anticipated the potential problem (as he was reminded by a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Tobirama), but he’d never expected Madara to voice the concern. It was, after all, in his best interest to act as if confident his clan would follow him: as Tobirama had pointed out, the Senju didn’t need to support Madara as leader. If his clan rejected him, Hashirama could in theory cast him aside and negotiate with whoever the Uchiha chose in his stead. So why was Madara confessing this to him now? Was it possible he was beginning to see Hashirama as an ally?

Haltingly, Madara answered, “I didn’t exactly...part with my clan on the best of terms.” His expression twisted into a wry smile. “I cursed them all as cowards before I walked out and left them to their fate. You can imagine why I’m not exactly sure of my reception.”

Hashirama thought carefully about his answer. “Your clan isn’t known for their cowardice,” he said, and made a guess. “You didn’t actually order them to fight, did you?”

At that, Madara glanced up at him in surprise. “…No, I didn’t.”

“Why not? They would have been honour-bound to obey.”

“True, I could have forced them. But you know as well as I do that facing an enemy with reluctant warriors at your back is a sure way to lose.” Madara shrugged. “I left instead, and in doing so gave up my position as leader.”

“You understood why they didn’t want to fight.” Hashirama was certain now that Madara’s uncaring façade was concealing true concern for his clan. “Surely they understood why you had to leave. If you had stayed, you would have been forced to serve Iesada or die.”

“A fate shared by every Uchiha samurai who remained.”

“And you’re returning now to save them from that fate,” Hashirama pointed out. “I know you’ll be able to persuade them to follow you. You’ve held on to your position through worse.”

“Maybe,” said Madara softly. “But that was when my brother was alive.”

“…Oh.” Hashirama wasn’t sure what to say to that. Losing Izuna had changed his friend, that was undeniable, and returning to a clan that he felt had abandoned his brother had to be painful. But Hashirama had to believe that Madara still had the will to lead his clan, if only for the sake of vengeance. He placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Madara’s shoulder and said, “You’ll find a way to convince them. After all, you wanted this badly enough to make an alliance with someone like me! Compared to that, reconciling with your clan should be nothing.”

That actually got a hoarse laugh in response. “Of all the people I’ve been forced to work with, you’re not the worst,” he said. Hashirama sighed dramatically and pretended he didn’t feel flattered by that.

Truthfully, Hashirama wasn’t certain what he’d do if the Uchiha refused Madara’s leadership. Abandoning his friend was out of the question; but could he really insist that Madara be reinstated? Ultimately, his own clan had to come first – and that meant he had to get the Uchiha on his side, one way or another. But there was no point in worrying too much about it before they’d even met with a single member of Madara’s clan. By the end of the day they would be within striking distance of the Uchiha castle town of Kamachi, and so they would soon have a better understanding of the situation they were in.

For now, at least, Madara seemed at least a little reassured by his words.

\---

By evening, the motley invading force had set up their final camp, concealed by the last bit of forest on the outskirts of the town. Hashirama sent messengers to the other small, scattered camps – they would stay split up until the last possible moment to avoid detection, and only assemble immediately before their assault was to begin. Alone in his tent, Hashirama was running through the final stages of the plan when an unexpected visitor threw back the door.

“Catch,” said Madara. Hashirama raised his hands in time to catch a hat – not the metal jingasa worn by soldiers, but a simple straw hat with a wide brim for keeping off the rain and sun. He looked up to see Madara wearing a second straw hat and a devious look.

“Where did you get these?” asked Hashirama.

“From a couple of your men. I have to say, it was smart to bring these instead of jingasa: they make for great disguises.”

“Disguises?” Hashirama was gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding. “What for?”

“You’re going into town with me,” Madara announced.

“What?” Hashirama spluttered. “Why would I do that?”

“I want to see what’s become of my clan.”

“You’ll see that in just a few days, when we invade! Besides, we already sent spies to investigate the town. _You_ would probably be recognized.”

Madara tapped the brim of his hat. “Hence the disguise.”

“That’s hardly a disguise! Surely your own clan won’t be fooled by a hat.” Hashirama folded his arms. “Sorry, Madara, but I can’t jeopardize our whole plan just so you can snoop around a bit earlier. There is absolutely no way we are going.”

\---

Half an hour later, Hashirama peered up at the fortifications of Kamachi-jō, ancestral home of the Uchiha daimyō, from under the brim of his wide straw hat. The town was perched precariously on the side of the mountain, the castle with its formidable defenses looming from the highest point. The town itself was protected only by a simple wooden wall; the Uchiha clearly relied on the natural architecture of the mountain to turn back invaders.

“They close the gate at sunset,” Madara informed him. “We’ll just make it.”

Hashirama followed him towards the entrance, more than a little apprehensive. “If they close the gates, how are we supposed to get out again?”

“Don’t worry. The town wall is designed to keep enemies out, not to keep people in.”

“…Right.” Eying the guards at the gate, Hashirama swallowed his nerves and tried to walk like an ordinary citizen innocently heading into town for the night. The two samurai stationed at the gate wore armour – conspicuously lacking in clan symbols, Hashirama noted – but no helmets, and looked like they thought they had better things to do. One stepped forwards to block Madara’s way as he moved to enter.

“Who are you, and what is your business here?” the guard droned.

Suddenly worried Madara’s haughty demeanor would give them away, Hashirama jumped in. “Just traveling merchants looking to spend the night in town, Samurai-sama!” He gave the guard a broad smile and a bow, and Madara, after a moment’s hesitation, bowed as well. The samurai gave them a suspicious once-over, taking in their travel-worn clothing, making the back of Hashirama’s neck prickle under the scrutiny. He forced his hand to remain still at his side instead of going to his waist, where his two swords normally hung.

“Enter,” said the guard, stepping to the side.

“Thankyouverymuch!” replied Hashirama, and practically shoved Madara through the gates ahead of him.

Inside the town, Hashirama had barely a moment to look around before Madara took off confidently through the streets, leaving his companion to trail after him. “Where are we going, anyways?” Hashirama asked him.

“A bar,” came the answer.

“A bar? Why didn’t you say so!” Exclaimed Hashirama in delight.

Madara shot him a sidewise glance. “I forgot how easy you are to persuade whenever alcohol is involved.”

“What do you know about it? We’ve only ever drunk together – what? Twice or three times?”

“Well, your reputation precedes you.”

“Hey! I don’t know what Tobirama told you, but it’s not all true! Maybe half, three-quarters at most.”

Madara just snorted and turned onto a narrow alleyway in what Hashirama could only guess must be the merchant district. The streets were fairly quiet for just after sunset, but the stores had lanterns lit and more than a few people were out and about. All things considered, the town – or this part of it, anyways – seemed relatively peaceful.

Madara stopped at a storefront with red lanterns hanging in front and pushed aside the cloth at the entrance. The establishment was small, containing a bar and a handful of tables, but was well lit by lanterns hanging on the walls. In one corner, a couple of elderly men were hunched over a game of shōgi; in another, a small group of men were chatting in low voices as a teenaged boy refilled their cups. Madara headed straight for the bar without bothering to look around, and as Hashirama came to sit beside him, ordered them a bottle of sake from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Thanks,” said Hashirama, accepting the cup his friend poured for him. He couldn’t help adding, “Is that my money you’re spending?”

“Of course not,” replied Madara, blank-faced. “I stole this off Tobirama.” Hashirama laughed and nearly choked on his mouthful of sake, and Madara tipped his cup to hide a smile.

“Do you know this place?” Hashirama asked, once he’d managed to safely swallow his sake.

“I’ve never actually patronized it myself. But…” Madara inspected his cup, held it up for another sip. “Izuna used to come here. He’d wake me up stumbling in drunk at some ridiculous hour, but in the morning he’d tell me all the gossip and rumours that he’d picked up. Started quite a few of them too.”

“Really? Like what?” Hashirama prompted, hopeful that now that he’d started talking Madara would keep going. He so rarely talked about his brother.

“Ever hear the one about how our duel was so fierce, it carved out a valley?”

“That was Izuna?” Hashirama laughed.

“Probably thought it was hilarious,” Madara mumbled into his cup. “Anyways, this should be the place for gossip. That’s what I brought you along for.”

“Wh – me?”

Madara waved his hand in a vague gesture. “You seem good at that. Go talk to someone, get the local rumours, see what’s been going on in this town. I can’t talk to anyone – I might be recognized.”

“Alright,” replied Hashirama, a little baffled but amused by this turn of events. He took another gulp of sake and looked around for a likely target. The bar was still mostly empty, but a couple seats away a man in what appeared to be shopkeeper’s clothes was ordering a drink. Hashirama caught his eye and gave him a friendly wave.

“Care to share a drink with me?”

Eyeing the bottle of sake in front of Hashirama, the man strolled over and sat next to him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You new in town?”

“Just passing through,” Hashirama replied.

“Oh?” The man squinted at him suspiciously. “We don’t get much traffic out this way.”

“Well, business has been slow,” said Hashirama with a theatrical sigh.

“You a salesman, then?”

Hashirama nodded.

“What’re you selling?”

“Ah…” This was tricky – if Hashirama picked a trade he knew nothing about, his falsehood might not hold up under further questioning. Plus, he needed to come up with something that would sound plausible for a traveling merchant. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Hashirama said, “I sell medicinal herbs and remedies!”

His new friend immediately perked up at these words. “Is that so? What luck! Listen, I’ve been looking for something to ease my back. I’ve tried all the usual medicines but really, they just haven’t been working! It’s because of the work I do – umbrella making, you know, all hunched over – the usual remedies don’t hold up to all that – and not to mention my knees! And what the doctors charge around here is ridiculous, I say.”

“Hm,” said Hashirama sympathetically. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Madara smirking under his hat as the man continued his list of complaints.

“…And not to mention how damp this spring has been, it’s tough on the joints…”

As Hashirama tried unsuccessfully to steer the umbrella maker in a more useful direction, he heard a new group of people enter the izakaya, calling loudly for drinks. The bar had been fairly quiet, but these newcomers were rowdy, sounding more than half-drunk already. A quick glance behind him showed Hashirama five men, all wearing swords.

“Hagoromo,” the umbrella maker muttered in a low voice, as the teenaged boy rushed out from behind the bar with bottles and cups.

“What was that?” asked Hashirama, leaning closer. “Isn’t this an Uchiha town?” He grabbed the bottle of sake and refilled his new friend’s cup, hoping to hear more.

The man took a drink, then turned his cup nervously in his hands. “You seem like a nice fellow. Take my advice: don’t stay in Kamachi for too long. I bet some of the mountain villages out east would pay well for medicines.”

Hashirama made a show of frowning in confusion. “But I was hoping to sell to the daimyō’s household!”

“Trust me, you won’t have much luck with that.”

There was a shout and a loud clatter from behind them; Hashirama and the umbrella maker both turned to look. A couple of the Hagoromo samurai were standing over the elderly men from earlier, who were sitting stock still in their chairs, their game of shōgi scattered on the ground.

“Hey, don’t I recognize you?” One of the swordsmen leaned over the table. “You were once a samurai, right, old man?”

“No, sir. You must be mistaken,” said the elder, fear seeping into his voice.

“I don’t think I am.” The samurai drew his wakizashi and threw it onto the table, then drew his katana with a slightly drunken flourish as his fellows cheered. “Let’s see how well you can still fight, old man.”

“I’m no swordsman!”

“Then you’d better learn fast,” said the Hagoromo.

The old man reached for the sword on the table – and was stopped by the teenaged server, who snatched up the wakizashi and brandished it at the samurai. “Leave him alone!”

Amidst the laughter of his friends the samurai exclaimed, “A new learner! Excellent!”

“I’m not afraid of you,” said the boy, lifting his chin. His adversary only snorted in amusement and gave his sword an experimental swing, making the boy flinch. Hashirama bit the inside of his lip – he hated to let the situation play out, but he couldn’t risk being recognized –

“Kagami.” Madara hadn’t raised his voice or turned around, but somehow this word cut through the noise in the bar. “You’re still too upstanding for your own good.”

The boy froze; the Hagoromo samurai looked past him to size up this new speaker.

“And who might you be?” asked the samurai mockingly. No doubt he could see Madara was unarmed, and had decided he didn’t pose much of a threat.

Madara set his cup down and got to his feet in a slow, deliberate motion. He turned to face the samurai, head tipped down, face still hidden by the brim of his hat. Hands at his sides, he took a slow step in the direction of the fighter, and Hashirama sighed in resignation.

“Sorry about this, my friend,” he said to the umbrella maker, and slid off his chair.

Before the baffled tradesman could reply, the Hagoromo samurai took a clumsy swipe at Madara, who leaned back like a tree bending in the wind, and then leapt forwards to grip the samurai’s arm at the end of his swing. Shifting to the left, Madara pulled on the man’s arm, sending him flying with an enormous crash into the table he’d recently cleared of the shōgi game.

There was a second of shocked silence. Then, in one frantic rush, the remaining four Hagoromo samurai leapt to their feet and drew their swords. Madara regarded the four men with disdain as they moved to surround him, but extended one hand to motion the boy, who was still clutching the wakizashi, back out of the path of the oncoming soldiers. Then, with a yell, the samurai in front of him charged.

Hashirama picked up his wooden stool with one hand and tapped the nearest samurai on the shoulder with the other. “Over here,” he said helpfully, and when the man turned to face him, smashed the chair against the side of his face. The soldier fell to the ground like a rock, and Hashirama was left holding a broken stool leg, which he immediately employed to block a sword swing aimed at his head. Dodging another strike, Hashirama landed a solid punch to his new opponent’s unprotected stomach, making the man double over in pain; Hashirama took advantage of this by grabbing the Hagoromo by the hair and slamming his knee into the poor man’s nose.

With two samurai down, Hashirama looked around for his companion, and found Madara holding a katana in one hand and the last remaining samurai by the neck of his robes in the other.

“Don’t kill him!” Hashirama yelled. If nobody died, this would probably all be chalked up to a rowdy night out and not investigated too closely; a body was the last thing they needed.

Madara hesitated, then brought the hilt of the katana down on the Hagoromo samurai’s head with a _crack_ that made Hashirama wince. He let the man’s unconscious body slump to the floor and looked over at Hashirama with his eyebrows raised, as if to say, _Are you happy_?

“Don’t give me that,” Hashirama scolded. “It was your idea to come here in the first place. Now how are we supposed to sneak out?”

The teenager from earlier – Kagami, if he remembered right – suddenly appeared at Hashirama’s elbow. “I know a way out of here! Follow me!”

Hashirama looked at his friend for confirmation; Madara nodded, and the two of them followed the boy past the bar into the back of the shop. Hashirama spotted the bartender cowering behind a shelf, and called out a hasty apology as they passed.

At the back of the izakaya, Kagami threw open a door and darted into a narrow alleyway, looking back to make sure Hashirama and Madara were still following. The three of them ran through a series of alleys, the boy in the lead dashing confidently through the maze of buildings, and finally skidded out onto what appeared to be a main street. Kagami slowed to a leisurely walk, and Hashirama, getting the message, tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe and tried to look like an innocent tourist out for an evening stroll. He did his best to hide that he was embarrassingly out of breath – the streets of Kamachi were _steep_. Finally, Kagami ducked behind a building and out of sight of the main streets. They had come up against the outer wall; in the dark, Kagami pushed aside a loose plank of wood and squeezed through the small gap he had revealed. Evidently, Hashirama was supposed to follow.

_I’m going to get stuck halfway through_, Hashirama thought somewhat desperately. Kagami had to be half his size; but seeing no other choice, Hashirama took off his hat – amazing, really, that he’d managed to hang onto it this long – and squirmed awkwardly through the hole in the wall. He barely fit, but it was worth it to watch Madara, normally so haughty and composed, struggle through after him. Hashirama swallowed a giggle as Kagami gestured for them to follow him once again.

They walked for several more minutes in silence, first along path of the wall, then picking up a trail leading into the forest. The darkening sky was soon covered by trees, but Kagami still walked purposefully, clearly sure of the way. Finally, the trail ended in a clearing occupied by a moss-covered shrine.

There was a sudden burst of light; Kagami had lit a lantern. “We can talk here,” he said. “None of the Hagoromo know about this place.”

“That was quick thinking, young man,” Hashirama told him, but Kagami wasn’t listening. The boy was staring intently at Madara, trying to get a better look at his face in the dim light.

“Is it…really you?” he asked, as if disbelieving his own words. “Madara-sama?”

“Yes, of course it’s me, Kagami,” Madara replied impatiently.

The boy dropped to his knees and bowed, pressing his forehead to the mossy ground.

“There’s no need for that,” Madara told him. “I’m no longer clan leader; or had you forgotten?”

Kagami sat up, but didn’t get to his feet. “Madara-sama! But you’re back now! Are you going to retake the castle?” His eyes were shining in the lantern light.

“I’ve returned with samurai to re-conquer the town, yes.” As an afterthought, Madara added, “This is my ally, Senju Hashirama.”

Kagami gave Hashirama a bow as well, and Hashirama nodded at him in response, a little amused by the boy’s enthusiasm.

“If you’re going to attack the Hagoromo, us Uchiha inside the town can help, Madara-sama!”

Madara’s eyebrows rose. “There are still Uchiha samurai in Kamachi?”

“Well…not that many. A few samurai stayed in hiding, but it’s mostly children and elders left. But we’ve been doing our best to make life difficult for the Hagoromo.”

“If that’s the case, there’s no need for any of you to endanger yourselves,” said Madara.

“Please, Madara-sama! Let me tell the others that you’ve returned. We may not be able to fight like samurai, but we can still help you.”

Madara considered this. “Very well,” he said. “I assume you can spread the word without any of the wrong ears hearing?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then you may tell the other Uchiha that we will attack in two days. Let them know to stay out of the way of the fighting, but they can help in whatever way they think best. Secrecy is important above all – understand?”

“I understand, Madara-sama. And thank you…for earlier. Thank you both,” said Kagami, bowing again to Hashirama.

“Take care, Kagami,” said Hashirama.

The boy backed out of the clearing and was gone.

After a moment’s silence, Hashirama said, “Are you sure it was wise to tell him all that? Even my real name?”

Madara was looking in the direction the teenager had gone. “Kagami’s a dependable boy. Much better than we were at that age.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Another pause. Then Madara said, “I was right about the disguises.”

Hashirama spluttered in indignation. “You blew our cover after barely ten minutes in that bar!”

“We got some information, though, didn’t we?”

“True.” Hashirama laughed. “I’m not sure whether to call this evening an utter failure or a spectacular success.”

Madara’s lips were twitching. “Let’s call it over with and go back to camp.”

“Sounds good to me, my friend. Better grab that lantern, though – I have absolutely no idea where we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do my research on incognito mode so my coworkers won't accidentally find out I googled "Japanese hat"


	5. Battle of Kamachi Castle

At dawn, two days after arriving at Kamachi, Hashirama found himself facing the gates to the town once again. This time, instead of a straw hat, he wore undecorated armour, a helmet, and mask – not his usual wooden one, but an unfamiliar menpō of plain black metal covering the lower half of his face. The metal mask was cold against Hashirama’s skin, chilled by the damp morning air. He was in disguise again, but this time, he would be playing the role of a mercenary captain, hired by Madara to recapture his castle. The deception was necessary to keep the Senju alliance with the Uchiha a secret from the Hagoromo, should any survive; the soldiers hidden behind Hashirama in the forest were similarly disguised. The Senju forces would remain hidden until the last possible moment to preserve the element of surprise, which meant it was up to Hashirama and Madara to deal with the guards at the gate. With an invading force of one hundred and eighty against a town built to house thousands of samurai, they were going to need every advantage they could get.

Fortunately, it seemed they hadn't yet roused any suspicion: the gates of Kamachi were still open, guarded only by two armoured samurai, just as before. And just as before, Madara strode down the path towards the gates with Hashirama at his heels. The guards at the gate, seeing two men armoured in black iron and wearing a pair of swords each, but _not_ seeing the warriors hidden in the forest behind them, stepped in front of the open gates to block their path.

“Who are you, and what is your business here?” This guard didn’t sound bored – his words snapped nervously. Clearly the armour was a little more threatening than their straw hats had been.

Madara had no need of disguise today; he wore neither mask nor helmet. His expression was impassive as he said, “My name is Uchiha Madara, and I am here to reclaim what’s mine.”

A few steps behind his friend, Hashirama watched recognition dawn on the guard’s face. Madara waited for the realization to sink in, waited for the moment the man began to draw his weapon – and then in a single smooth motion drew his tachi from its sheath and drove the point through the guard’s throat. As the first samurai fell, Madara turned towards the second guard, who by now had his sword out and ready.

“Run and warn your leader,” Madara told him. “Or stay and die here.”

The samurai hesitated, but instead of turning to run, he gave a yell and rushed forwards. Madara remained still as the man approached, but just as the guard brought down his sword, he stepped neatly to the side, brought up his tachi in a two-handed grip, and sliced with his weight behind it. The guard’s momentum carried his body forwards, but his head landed at Madara’s feet.

As Madara calmly wiped and resheathed his blade, Hashirama felt a chill go down his spine. He’d almost forgotten this Madara, the fearsome Uchiha samurai who had so terrified the Senju armies. Without looking back, Madara stepped through the gates into the town; Hashirama swallowed the strange feeling in his throat, gave the signal for the hidden forces to advance, and stepped over the bodies of the guards.

The streets of Kamachi were just waking up. Inside the gates, Madara turned sharply to the left; about a third of Hashirama’s warriors split off and followed him, en route to the samurai district. Without looking back, Hashirama knew that the rest of the invading forces were behind him, marching straight ahead. Madara’s objective was to secure the town; Hashirama’s was to take the castle. Kamachi-jō loomed above him, its graceful tiered roofs and two-story tower easily visible above the civilian buildings: he set his sights grimly on the gates and strode up the steep central street, the few civilians in his path scattering ahead of the oncoming samurai.

As Hashirama neared the castle, he waved his arm to signal his forces to spread out and ducked into a side street. The danger here was from the archers in the castle: from above, they would have an easy shot at the invaders. Here, hiding behind the nearest buildings, was Hashirama’s last shelter – but he couldn’t stay here long. He had to breach the wall of the castle as quickly as possible, before the Hagoromo could mount a proper defense.

Kamachi-jō was built into the side of the mountain, its wooden walls an afterthought to the four-meter cliffs of stone that made up its foundation. There was no point in trying to break down the mountainside, and the gate itself was a narrow chokepoint leading to a steep deathtrap of a staircase. The only reasonable strategy was to scale the walls, and so the Senju forces had spent the last two days cutting branches to make rough ladders. Hashirama waited for his warriors to array themselves along the nearby streets, surrounding the castle gates. Back to the side of the building, he peered around the corner, ready for the deadly rebuke of an arrow – but although he could see movement along the walls, no arrows came to meet him. Hashirama drew back behind the building, took a breath, and drew his sword. He held the blade aloft for his samurai to see, counted silently – three, two, one – and charged for the castle.

Hashirama could hear the yells of the invaders and feel their armoured footsteps behind him, but his vision had shrunk to the stone in front of him. He was acutely aware of the arrows that had to be slicing through the air towards him at any moment. In the space of three breaths he was at the wall; in the next breath a ladder was beside him, planted in the ground against the wall; Hashirama leapt onto the ladder the instant it was secured and began to climb, intent on eliminating the archers on the wall before they could pick off his troops. The ladder didn’t quite reach the top of the wooden wall. When Hashirama neared the top, he drew his sword and grabbed at the logs with his free hand as an armoured samurai appeared on the wall above him. The samurai stabbed downwards with his sword; Hashirama swung himself to the left, his left arm screaming with the weight of all his armour, and hacked at the man’s wrist. His retaliation was slow – his blade only drew a ribbon of blood across the samurai’s hand, rather than severing the hand as he’d intended – but the man yelled and withdrew, giving Hashirama enough of an opening to find a foothold and propel himself up and over the wall. He crashed headlong into his assailant – best not to give the man time to recover – and rolled, coming up on one knee.

Around him was chaos. Men were running in every direction, shouting orders and yelling in confusion. Hashirama quickly dispatched the samurai who had challenged him and backed against the wall, trying to get his bearings. His foot knocked against something: a bow, discarded on the ground. In the brief moment he spared to look, Hashirama noticed that the bowstring had snapped. He barely had time to wonder what had happened before the next enemy was upon him and he was forced to focus on fighting.

The haze of battle descended on Hashirama, keeping him moving from one sword stroke to the next, the passage of time marked by his heartbeat in his ears. His warriors quickly overwhelmed the defenders on the wall and began to swarm into the castle, hunting out the enemy. The Hagoromo fought to the end – Hashirama had to give them their due as samurai, but despite their fierce struggle, they were woefully unprepared for the attack. With the wall breached, little resistance remained.

The battle had swept rapidly through the interior of the castle, with Hashirama leading the way. But now the fighting had died down; the hallways of the castle were bloodstained but secure, so Hashirama went back outside to take stock of the losses they’d suffered scaling the wall. There was a small courtyard between the wall and the castle, which he’d barely seen as he’d rushed inside during the fighting. As soon as he stepped out into the daylight, he spotted Madara standing atop the wall, overlooking his town, his long mane of hair blowing in the wind. At the sight of his friend, Hashirama was struck by a wave of relief that shocked him with its intensity. Madara was a fearsome warrior, after all – Hashirama couldn’t imagine him reacting with anything other than scorn and derision if he ever learned that Hashirama had been _worried_ about him.

Hashirama tugged off his mask and removed his helmet, relishing the feel of the cool wind on his sweaty hair. He walked over to where Madara was standing and called his name, quietly, so as not to startle him off his perch. Madara turned to look at him.

“Your castle has been secured. Congratulations!” Hashirama told him with a tired grin.

Madara didn’t smile, but Hashirama could tell from his eyes that he was pleased. “The town is ours as well. I’m almost offended the Hagoromo left so few samurai to guard us.”

“I’m not complaining!” Hashirama said with feeling. He was deeply relieved that taking Kamachi hadn’t been as costly as he’d feared. Which reminded him – Hashirama looked around and spotted one his captains, busy directing soldiers at the main gate. Hashirama waved the man over. “Report on the situation at the wall. What were our casualties?”

“Yes, sir! We have six dead and twenty-one wounded, sir.”

Hashirama blinked. “So few?”

“It’s partly because of this, sir.” The samurai held a bow like the one Hashirama had noticed earlier, with the bowstring hanging loose. “Almost all the bows we found had strings that had been cut partway through. Looks like sabotage, sir – the strings must have snapped when the archers tried to draw.”

Madara nodded in approval. “My people did their part,” he said.

_“We may not be able to fight like samurai, but we can still help you_,” Kagami had said.

“Thank you. You may go,” Hashirama told the captain, who bowed and returned to the gate. Turning back to Madara, Hashirama said, “That was a clever ploy.”

“I expected no less.” Madara jumped down from the wall, his landing raising a puff of dust in the courtyard. “Walk with me, Hashirama,” he said.

Hashirama had wounded soldiers to deal with, but…fewer than expected, and his people had the situation well in hand. “Alright,” he replied, “Where are we going?”

“To find the Uchiha,” said Madara, and strode off towards the gate.

\---

To Hashirama’s surprise, Madara headed not for the samurai district but instead for what seemed to be a civilian neighborhood. The streets in this part of town were almost entirely deserted: everyone was still hiding indoors, waiting to discover the outcome of today’s violence. But as the two samurai turned onto a short, dead-end street, Hashirama noticed a group of twenty, maybe thirty people clustered at the end of the lane. As they drew closer, he could see that the group was mostly made up of teenagers and elders, with a few adults clutching the hands of young children. Hashirama spotted Kagami flitting through the crowd and tried to catch his eye; but the boy ducked behind a cluster of purple robes and was gone. These people, then, must be what was left of the Uchiha clan in Kamachi.

Madara wasn’t stopping to greet his people, instead heading directly for the little house at the end of the lane. But just before he reached the house, a girl – no, a young woman, in her late teens or early twenties – stepped in front of him to block his path.

“You have no right to come here!” The woman informed him. She wore no weapons, but she stood like a fighter, her stance firm in front of the house.

“Stand aside, Naori,” said Madara. Though he spoke in a low voice, his words sent a ripple moving through the crowd.

Naori lifted her chin and met his gaze defiantly. “I’m not taking orders from our former leader. Or are you our conqueror now?”

Madara glowered down at her, but she didn’t flinch. Hashirama was impressed – not many people could hold their ground against that stare, seasoned warriors included. But before Madara could respond, a voice came from the doorway of the house: “It’s alright, Naori.”

With a final wary look, Naori stepped to the side, revealing the doorway behind her. Out of the house tottered an old woman leaning on the arm of a man around Hashirama’s age. A respectful hush fell over the crowd as the pair of them approached, finally stopping in front of Madara.

“Nekobaa-sama”, said Madara to the old woman, then, “Hikaku,” nodding at the man.

_Nekobaa?_ Hashirama wondered if he’d heard that right. Then, to his further astonishment, Madara bowed low in front of the woman.

“So you’ve returned, Madara-chan,” said Nekobaa.

_Madara-chan?!_ Hashirama barely suppressed an ugly snort.

Madara straightened from his bow and, apparently done wasting time on greetings, said, “I’ve come to be reinstated as head of the clan.”

“Hmm.” Nekobaa peered up at him, the wrinkles of her lined face looking almost like whiskers. “And why have you decided to come back now?”

“Nekobaa-sama, I now have the means to reunite the Uchiha clan and defend us from the Hagoromo. I have returned to take back our home.”

More quiet murmurs from the crowd as Nekobaa considered this declaration. Hashirama, wondering if he was considered the “means”, caught the eye of a couple Uchiha staring at him curiously; he gave them a smile and an awkward wave, and immediately regretted it as they all looked pointedly away.

Finally, Nekobaa replied, “Very well. The elders will meet at sunset, and debate the matter of leadership. You may state your case then, Madara-chan.”

Madara bowed again in answer. Nekobaa said nothing, but Hikaku offered a quiet, “Welcome back, Madara-sama,” before turning to help her make her way back inside the house. Madara turned to leave as well, and with that, his official reunion with the Uchiha clan came to an end.

\---

“Aha!” Madara stepped back with a satisfied exclamation as the floorboard he’d pressed slid smoothly back. Hashirama clambered over the tatami mats Madara had thrown aside to look at the secret chamber he’d just uncovered. They were in one of the inner rooms of Kamachi-jō, searching for the hidden treasures of the Uchiha, or so Madara had claimed. Hashirama peered over the lip of the floorboards to see what treasures the secret compartment held, and saw: a collection of fans. Dominating the collection was the massive Gunbai Uchiwa, famed symbol of the leader of the Uchiha clan, but there were also several other, smaller wooden war fans, and even a few folding fans.

Madara grasped the handle of the Gunbai and lifted it, a small smile playing on his face. “It feels good to hold this again,” he said, and gave the fan a few experimental swings.

“Watch where you’re swinging that!” Hashirama yelped. The intended use of the Gunbai was for signalling your armies – the huge fan, with its bright white surface and red tomoe, was easily visible and very distinctive – but Madara was known for occasionally using it as a weapon as well.

“Relax, Hashirama. I’m just getting reacquainted.” Madara held up the fan and inspected its painted wooden surface contemplatively. “I suppose I’ll bring this to the elders tonight. Let them give it to my successor, if they want.”

Here was the problem Hashirama had been actively avoiding since they arrived at Kamachi. “Will you really abide by their decision if they decide not to reinstate you?”

Madara planted the Gunbai handle up on the floor and scowled down at it, considering. “I’m not interested in fighting my clan. I’ve never tried to force them to do anything; why should I start now? Besides, it’s…not what my brother would have wanted.” He looked up at Hashirama, his mouth twisting wryly. “If I’m not reinstated as leader, I could stay with you, couldn’t I? I’d like to see this fight through to the end.”

Hashirama tried to ignore the way his heart leapt at those words. “Of course,” he replied evenly. “We’re committed to doing battle with the Hagoromo now, after all. I just hope I can convince your clan to join us.” _It’s vengeance he’s after_, Hashirama reminded himself sternly. _It doesn’t mean he wants to stay with you._

Madara gave him a reluctant smile and said, “Don’t worry about it. You can be awfully convincing,” making Hashirama’s heart do another treacherous leap.

“Uh, thank you, I think,” he stammered, and concentrated intently on the remainder of the fans inside the compartment. His eye was caught by a small, plain-looking black folding fan. He picked it up: it was surprisingly heavy, and opened to reveal delicate paper strung between ribs of iron instead of wood.

“A tessen?” He wondered aloud. Tessen were sometimes carried by samurai as a type of concealed weapon, but their use was fairly rare. This one had a beautiful design that echoed the Gunbai, strange red patterns painted on a white background.

The Gunbai clattered to the ground. “Don’t touch that!” Madara snapped, and yanked the tessen out of Hashirama’s hands. Hashirama held up his hands in a placating gesture, but Madara ignored him, cradling the fan in his hands as if it were a precious artifact.

“What is it?” Hashirama asked.

Madara shut the tessen carefully and tucked it into his sleeve. “This was Izuna’s,” he said shortly.

“Ah…I’m sorry. These fans belong to your clan; I shouldn’t have touched them.”

His friend gave a careless shrug, shaking his hair in front of his face so his expression was hidden. “What use do I have for these dusty old artifacts? Do what you like with the rest of them.” Ignoring Hashirama’s protests, Madara bent to retrieve the Gunbai and stood, resting the giant war fan on his shoulder. “Let’s go, Hashirama. I’ve found what I was looking for.”

\---

An hour after sunset, when Hashirama finally made his way back to the house at the end of the lane, the meeting to decide the leadership of the Uchiha clan was still in progress. The crowd in front of the house had grown, but this time the atmosphere was less tense; more one of excited anticipation. Lanterns had been lit, and people were sharing drinks and talking. As Hashirama approached, the man he remembered helping Nekobaa earlier spotted him and walked over.

“Welcome, Hashirama-sama,” he said politely, and offered up a bottle. “Would you like a drink?”

“Please,” said Hashirama with enthusiasm. It had been a very long, very tiring day, but with his people cared for, all that was left was to await the leadership decision. He accepted the bottle and said, “Thank you – Hikaku-san, was it?”

“That’s right,” said Hikaku as Hashirama took a swig of what was, in his estimation, very good sake. “We’ve actually met before, although I don’t think I was introduced to you by name.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“I acted as one of Madara-sama’s assistants during the peace talks between our two clans. I have to admit, Hashirama-sama, when those agreements were worked out, I never imagined your clan would be willing to come to our aid like this.”

Hashirama returned the bottle with a polite nod. “It’s my privilege to help my friends,” he said gravely, and then, more lightly, “But I hope the negotiations won’t have to be reopened with a new leader! Do you really think Madara will be replaced?”

Hikaku took a long drink from his bottle. “I hope not, Hashirama-sama. The rift between Madara and the rest of the clan was serious, but honestly, there’s nobody who can replace him.”

“Your people have quite a fighting spirit,” Hashirama commented, thinking of Kagami with his stolen wakizashi, and Naori standing up to Madara alone and unarmed.

Nodding, Hikaku answered, “If Madara could give us just a little bit of hope, we’d direct that spirit anywhere he asked.”

As he finished speaking, the crowd grew suddenly quiet; the door to the house was sliding back. Out stepped two elderly men, one slightly younger woman, and finally Nekobaa, her clawlike hands clutching the left arm of Madara. In his other hand, Madara held the Gunbai Uchiwa – _that has to be a good sign,_ Hashirama thought anxiously. Although, on the other hand, maybe the thing was just too heavy for any of the elders to lift.

As he entered the circle of light cast by the lanterns, Madara faced his people, and raised the Gunbai above his head in a salute. The crowd erupted, Hikaku cheering wildly beside him – no need, then, to ask the outcome of the meeting. Madara looked around, his eyes searching; when his gaze met Hashirama’s, he grinned, wild and unreserved, and Hashirama was abruptly overwhelmed with a strange melting sensation in his chest.

“Let our enemies beware,” Madara called, his deep voice carrying easily through the crowd, “For the Uchiha clan will rise again!” He let the Gunbai fall, as if signaling a charge, and the Uchiha roared their approval.

And Hashirama thought, _Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Nekobaa is timeless & has been around watching shit go down since forever, like that old toad sage. Also, I can't get enough of those filler episodes where Team 7 has to pretend to be cats. Itachi philosophizing while wearing cat ears at the end...amazing.


	6. Uzumaki Mito

The tip of Hashirama’s wooden practice sword slid past the barest gap in Madara’s defense to strike him solidly on the collarbone. “Got you!” Hashirama gasped.

“_Augh_,” Madara growled in frustration, and stepped back a pace, lowering his sword. “Another round!” he demanded, though he was panting as badly as Hashirama was.

“You’re on! Just give me a minute to – ugh – catch my breath.” Hashirama switched his sword to his left hand and shook out his sword arm to loosen the sore muscles. “You almost had me there!”

Madara pushed back a few sweaty strands of hair that had escaped his ponytail. “I didn’t expect you to counter so quickly,” he admitted.

“I barely made it!” said Hashirama modestly. In truth, he was kind of proud of the moves he’d managed in that last round. He so rarely got the opportunity to fight anyone even approaching Madara’s level – at least, outside of the battlefield. Tobirama was very good, but these days he mostly preferred to train with unusual or specialized weaponry, which made it difficult to spar with him. Daily fights against an opponent who actually pushed him to improve; that was something Hashirama hadn’t had in a long time.

It had been a long time since training had been so much _fun_.

An idea suddenly occurred to him. “Why don’t we give the next round some stakes?”

“Oh? What do you have in mind? If you win, that is.”

_Have a drink with me_, suggested Hashirama’s brain. Terrible idea; no way Madara would consider those stakes acceptable. “Have a drink with me,” said Hashirama’s idiot, filterless mouth. _Oops._

He waited for Madara to refuse, but to his surprise, his friend actually seemed to be considering it. “Very well,” he said at last, “but if I win, you have to throw out those ridiculous hakama.” He made a vague gesture at Hashirama’s pants with his sword.

This time, Hashirama managed to clamp his mouth shut before he could make some kind of stupid joke about Madara and taking his pants off. “What’s wrong with my hakama?” he asked instead.

“The stripes are ridiculous! I’m embarrassed to be seen with you.”

“Wh – ! These are my favourite – ! No. You know what? When I win, we’re going to go drinking, and I’m going to wear these pants.”

Madara raised his sword and assumed a battle-ready stance. “You should prepare yourself to bid them goodbye,” he said gravely.

Equally serious, Hashirama mirrored his stance, bringing his sword up with a flourish. “Then try your best and – oh! Good morning, Naori-san.”

He’d been so caught up in their banter that he hadn’t noticed her approach. Naori gave him a respectful bow and said, “Good morning, Hashirama-sama. Madara-sama.” After her striking introduction at Kamachi, Hashirama had been a bit surprised to discover over the past few weeks that Naori was unfailingly polite.

The same couldn’t really be said of Madara; his expression threatened a scowl. “What are you doing here, Naori?”

“I came to watch you spar, if that’s alright with you,” she replied evenly.

“You’ve seen me fight before,” Madara pointed out.

“Yes, but I’ve never seen you fight Senju Hashirama. I’ve heard the stories, though, so I’m curious to see it for myself. Besides, you always used to say that nobody in the Uchiha clan could even approach Hashirama when it came to swordsmanship, so I’d like to see what I can learn from watching him.”

Hearing Naori say that in her matter-of-fact way made Hashirama’s jaw drop. “Did he really say that about me?” he asked, delighted.

A tiny spark of mischief lit in Naori’s eyes. “All the time, Hashirama-sama,” she assured him. “And he would often complain that no fighter in the clan could properly match his abilities, unlike you. So you can see, I’m sure, why I’m interested in watching this match.”

“Yes, fine! Enough!” snapped Madara. To Hashirama’s eternal satisfaction, he noted that despite the dark glower on Madara’s face, the tips of his ears had turned pink.

“Very well, then,” said Hashirama, once again assuming his ready stance, “I hope I can live up to your expectations, Naori-san.” Privately, he was very pleased that she had come to watch, and not just for the chance to mildly embarrass Madara. In the weeks since Kamachi, Hashirama had watched the handful of Uchiha samurai who had joined with the ranks of the Senju tiptoe carefully around their newly reinstated clan head. Hashirama wasn’t sure if they hadn’t yet forgiven Madara for leaving the clan, or if they were just afraid of him; but either way, it was clear that the rift between him and his clan hadn’t fully healed. Maybe it was a good sign that Naori was seeking him out, if only to watch him fight an old rival.

“Thank you, Hashirama-sama. I’m sure this will be a good learning experience for me.”

“Of course,” he said. “Ready, Madara?”

Madara brought his sword up wordlessly, and then opened the match with a vicious attack; Hashirama turned aside his sword and met him with equal ferocity. This was a challenge he would rise to gladly – and, if he was honest with himself, he enjoyed the chance to show off a little. Without the high stakes of a real fight, and with an opponent like Madara who could handle anything he threw at him, Hashirama could do whatever he liked, and push himself to his limits without risk. It was freeing, he thought, dodging Madara’s brutal overhand swing and retaliating with a daring lunge. Madara turned to avoid the wooden blade and let the defensive move flow seamlessly into his next attack, which Hashirama was already anticipating and moving to counter.

Hashirama wasn’t sure if it was their bet, or their audience, or both; but the intensity of this fight had gone up a couple notches from their previous rounds. Madara was barely giving him time to breathe, pressing him relentlessly at every turn. Determined not to lose, Hashirama moved in close, forcing their wooden blades together, and bore down on the locked swords with his weight – he was slightly stronger than Madara, and leveraged this to his advantage. When Madara tried to turn, Hashirama slammed his shoulder into his opponent’s sword arm; Madara took the hit, his breath hissing through his teeth, and instead twisted his sword around Hashirama’s to stab at his chest. But to Hashirama’s startlement, he aborted the move halfway through, falling back with a low grunt of pain.

“Are you alright?” Hashirama asked in alarm, letting his sword fall and taking a step back. Madara’s hand had gone to his right shoulder; the same shoulder, Hashirama realized with a jolt of worry, that had recently been dislocated.

“I’m fine,” Madara said shortly, and switched his sword to his left hand. “Come on, Hashirama, let’s go!”

“Absolutely not!” Hashirama snapped. “You can’t continue training with an injury! What kind of example are you trying to set for your student?” Both Madara and Naori looked taken aback at that. Before Madara could recover enough to reply, Hashirama seized him by the back of his robes as if he was an unruly student himself and propelled him forwards. “Come on. We’re going back to my tent to make sure your shoulder hasn’t been dislocated again. Or didn’t you know that dislocating a joint once puts you at risk for more injuries?”

“No, no! That’s not necessary!” Madara’s protests were tinged with panic.

Hashirama ignored him. “My apologies, Naori-san. You’ll have to observe one of our sparring matches another time.”

Naori, watching with wide eyes as her clan leader was dragged away like an angry kitten, said, “That’s alright, Hashirama-sama.”

“See you later, Naori-san! Come on, you.” And he towed a still-protesting Madara across camp and back to his tent.

“I _told_ you, Hashirama, I’m _fine!_”

“Sit down and take your arm out of the sleeve,” Hashirama ordered. “You can go once I’ve examined your shoulder. Or what are you going to do if it’s dislocated again?”

Madara gave him a glare venomous enough to kill a small animal but complied, apparently understanding, finally, that Hashirama wasn’t going to let this go. Hashirama knelt in front of him and gently moved his kimono out of the way so he could examine the injured shoulder. Nothing appeared obviously out of place; that was good. Hashirama ran his hands gently over Madara’s shoulder, feeling for dislocated bone but finding only knotted muscle. He pressed against the front of the shoulder, carefully at first but then more firmly – no reaction.

Hashirama breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not dislocated; only a little strained. Be careful with this arm for the next few days, and you should be fine.” He ran his hands over Madara’s shoulder again, less gently this time, trying to work out some of the knots in the muscle.

“Hashirama.”

Madara’s voice had gone deep and raspy – hearing his name in that voice sent a shiver down Hashirama’s spine. He’d been so intent on making sure his friend wasn’t injured that he hadn’t realized the situation he’d put himself in. But now, suddenly, he was acutely aware of the warm skin and taut muscle under his hands, and Madara sitting there with his eyes closed, a bead of sweat running down his neck…

“Yes?” Hashirama’s voice sounded a little breathless to his own ears. _Oh, no_.

“If my shoulder is fine, what are you still doing?”

Hashirama did _not_ snatch his hands back; he very carefully removed them from Madara’s shoulder and placed them in his own lap. “I’m, uh, all done, actually,” he stammered.

“Then I’ll be going.” Madara yanked his kimono back over his shoulder in a movement that was almost violent.

“Be careful!” Hashirama couldn’t resist telling him.

“Yes, fine; thank you. See you later!” With that, Madara marched out of the tent, not looking back.

Hashirama remained kneeling on the floor for a moment after his friend was gone. He flexed his hands, remembering the feel of Madara’s skin a moment before, and allowed himself a sigh. He wasn’t in the habit of deceiving himself – he hadn’t held onto his position as daimyō by being willfully ignorant – and in the weeks since Kamachi, his feelings for Madara had become so obvious that Hashirama could hardly fail to notice them. It was as if an ember that had been smouldering under his skin for years had suddenly burst into flame, fueled by the time he’d been spending in Madara’s company. Having Madara nearby, as his ally, his _friend_ – it was what he’d wanted since childhood, and now he wanted more.

But this dream would remain unspoken. It wasn’t Hashirama’s style to pine in secret; when it came to romance, he normally preferred to be straightforward. If he was interested in someone, he’d make a polite offer and find out directly if his interest was reciprocated or not. He was usually pretty popular with men and women alike, but he could take rejection in stride when it did happen (although Tobirama, whose shoulder he’d cried on a few times when he was younger, might beg to differ on that). Madara, though, wasn’t just his friend; he was head of Hashirama’s closest – at the moment, his only – allied clan. Any missteps on Hashirama’s part could have far-reaching consequences for both of their clans. He might have been willing to take that risk anyways, if he had good reason to believe that his advances would be welcome – but that was the other problem. Only a little over a month ago Madara had been prepared for Hashirama to kill him; what little of his trust Hashirama had gained since that time was fragile. Their friendship had been growing, little by little, and there was the occasional moment, when Hashirama thought, maybe…but then Madara would put more distance between them, and Hashirama would doubt his own perception. They were very far from the days they’d spent together as children, when Hashirama thought he could see into Madara’s heart as though it was a mirror of his own.

What was clear was that Hashirama couldn’t give Madara any reason to question their renewed friendship, or worse, doubt his motives in proposing the alliance. Confessing his feelings now would almost certainly upset the delicate peace Hashirama had worked so hard to achieve. If Madara ever gave any indication that he felt the same way, Hashirama would leap at the chance – but for now, all he could do was show that he cared for Madara as a friend, and that he was truly worthy of his trust. Having Madara by his side like this was more than he’d once thought possible; it was more than enough.

_Still would have been nice to have that drink with him_, Hashirama thought wistfully.

His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a voice outside the tent. “Hey, Boss! You in there?”

“Tōka!” he exclaimed, and scrambled to his feet, brooding forgotten. He hadn’t expected the Senju contingent to be so close already! But sure enough, when he pushed aside the tent flap, there was Tōka, with Tobirama standing just behind her. Hashirama gave her a one-armed hug. “It’s so good to see you two!” he said, and descended upon Tobirama with hands outstretched to ruffle his hair.

Tobirama dodged his brother’s hands with the ease of long practice. “It’s good to see you, too, Anija. I thought the Uchiha would eat you alive.”

_If only_, thought Hashirama wryly. Out loud he said, “Not quite! I’m pleased to say the mission was a complete success.”

“Funny, though. I didn’t see very many Uchiha samurai on the way in here.”

Hashirama winced. “The clan really is scattered, just like Madara said. We managed to get a delegation of twenty samurai, but the rest of their warriors, as well as their ashigaru, will take longer to assemble.” Not to mention most of those samurai, like Naori, were worryingly young. Most of the more experienced warriors, Hikaku included, had stayed behind to organize the armies of the Uchiha.

“That’s too bad,” said Tōka. “Let’s hope our forces alone will be enough.” At Hashirama’s questioning look, she elaborated, “We just received word from our spies that the Hagoromo are launching a large-scale attack on the Uzumaki. If we want the plan to succeed, we’d better go support Uzumaki Mito now, before it’s too late.”

“That’s why we rushed here so quickly,” Tobirama added. It had always been the plan for them to rendezvous here, at the northeastern end of Senju territory, but Tobirama was a few weeks ahead of schedule. Now that Hashirama thought of it, the two of them did look a little ragged and travel worn, Tobirama wearing telltale shadows under his eyes. The sight made Hashirama realize that his time spent enjoying his spars with Madara was coming to an end.

Straightening his spine, he said, “There’s no time to waste, then. We’re close enough to make it to the battlefield in three days’ time – two if we hurry.”

“Wait just a moment, Anija. Before we go marching off, we need to decide how we’re going to persuade Uzumaki Mito to agree to an alliance. You’d better call Madara for a meeting.”

\---

It was past noon by the time the meeting began. The setting was exactly the same as the last meeting Hashirama had called – a tent serving as his wartime headquarters – but since then, his council had gained one new member. When asked if he wanted a second representative for his clan present, Madara had named Uchiha Naori, despite her youth and inexperience. “She’s the most diplomatic of my samurai here,” he explained to Hashirama before the meeting, the amusement in his eyes showing he understood the irony of this statement. Hashirama had to admit: if he wanted someone who would advocate fiercely for the interests of his clan, he’d made the right choice.

Once introductions had been made, the meeting began with Tobirama outlining the information he’d received about the Hagoromo’s new reinforcements. Next, Tōka explained the strength of the forces she and Tobirama had brought with them, and, considering the position of the Uzumaki, discussed how best to bolster their defense. It was clear the situation was dire: they would have no choice but to mount a rescue immediately, before agreeing to a formal alliance with the Uzumaki. Naori, who couldn’t have had much experience with strategy, said little but listened attentively. Madara, on the other hand, was forceful as ever, and clashed with Tobirama on how to deploy the Uchiha samurai. Hashirama put an end to that debate by reminding everyone that all their strategizing was nothing but a stopgap measure until an alliance with the Uzumaki could be reached.

“About that, Anija,” Tobirama interjected. “We have reason to believe that the Uzumaki might not be as willing to agree to a deal as we thought.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Madara.

Tōka answered him. “We found out that the Hagoromo actually offered them a treaty as well, but were turned down.”

“That’s not too worrying. The Hagoromo offered us a pretty raw deal, remember?” Hashirama pointed out. “I’m sure we can do better than them.”

“I’m not so certain,” said Tobirama. “If we want to be sure of a good reception, I think we should offer something to guarantee that we’ll honour the agreement.”

Hashirama frowned at him. “Tobirama, we agreed never to use hostages as a bargaining tool.”

“Not hostages.” Tobirama leaned forward, maintaining eye contact with his brother. “I’m suggesting a marriage.”

“What?” Hashirama was taken aback. “Marriage to…Uzumaki Mito?”

Tobirama nodded.

With a sinking feeling, Hashirama asked, “Who?”

“You, of course. She’s a daimyō in her own right; we can’t very well offer someone of a lower station. Besides, what better way to solidify an alliance than by joining our two clans in marriage?”

With growing panic, Hashirama looked at Tōka for rescue, but she only shrugged and said, “I’m not sure it’ll work, but it would at least show we’re serious about this treaty.”

If Hashirama thought about it, the plan did, unfortunately, make sense. He’d always known that he was probably destined for a political marriage, but he’d sort of hoped that it would at least be to someone he knew and liked. Uzumaki Mito was a complete unknown; he knew her by reputation only. But he was the one who had bet the survival of his people on this risky plan, and the plan hinged on this alliance - if there was ever a worthy reason for him to agree to an arranged marriage, surely this was it.

“I’m not opposed to the idea,” said Hashirama, reluctantly. “Are there any objections?” Thoughtlessly, foolishly, his gaze landed on Madara as he spoke.

Madara tossed his head, letting his mane of hair cover his expression, and said, “I have no objection.” His voice was cold.

_What was I expecting?_ Hashirama admonished himself, disgusted by his own disappointment. This was a strategy decision for the benefit of both of their clans; personal feelings had no place in this. Even if Madara did want something other than friendship from him, he had no right to prevent Hashirama’s marriage on those grounds.

His reaction still stung. Hashirama pulled himself together and said, “It’s decided then. I will propose marriage to Uzumaki Mito to seal our treaty.”

“Don’t look so glum about it, Anija,” Tobirama said dryly. “From what I’ve heard, she’s probably your type.”

Hashirama winced at that; Madara got abruptly to his feet. “If we’re finished?” he said, and, not waiting for an answer, marched out of the tent. Naori stood as well, made a polite bow, and followed him.

“Thanks for that, Tobirama,” said Hashirama, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. From what he’d heard of Uzumaki Mito, she was strong-willed, capable, and quick-tempered – in other words, probably his type exactly. Hashirama wondered, somewhat bitterly, if she also had unruly black hair. _Damn it, why couldn’t Tobirama have suggested that HE get married?_

\---

“This seems like a good place to set up camp,” Tōka suggested. “Don’t you think, Boss?”

“I couldn’t agree more!” said Hashirama with relief. The rolling hills of Uzumaki territory were easy terrain for horses, which meant that Hashirama was riding ahead with the mounted contingent brought by Tobirama while the rest of his warriors followed behind on foot. They were trying to reach the battlefield as quickly as possible, which meant this was the end of the second full day of riding – in armour, too, since they were technically in hostile territory. Hashirama was extremely bored, and extremely _sore_. He held up a closed fist to signal his samurai to stop and pulled his horse up, thinking longingly of his nice comfortable tent. “You wouldn’t believe the bruises I have on my – “

“Shh!” Madara, riding beside him, held up a hand for silence. Hashirama, cut off midsentence, strained his ears for whatever Madara had heard – and there it was, suddenly clear without the sound of hoofbeats: the clash of weapons and screams of battle, drifting from just over the next hill.

The battlefield had arrived sooner than expected.

_The Uzumaki must have been pressed back_, thought Hashirama in alarm. He exchanged glances with Madara; his friend looked resolute, no doubt having come to the same conclusion. Hashirama turned to his other side, where Tobirama was riding, met his brother’s eye, and gave him a nod.

Tobirama turned his horse around to face the samurai behind him. He pointed: “You, you, and you. Ride through those trees and observe the positions of the armies on the other side of the hill. Report back without being seen.” As the three riders broke off from the group to follow his orders, he added, “The rest of you, prepare for battle.”

Hashirama retrieved his helmet from the bag on his saddle and put it on, doublechecked the straps of his armour, and loosened his two swords in their sheaths. This was not the ideal time for a battle – Hashirama’s troops were worn out from traveling, and the light would soon be fading – but it seemed they would have no choice. At his side, Madara drew a kusarigama from his bag and began to rewind its long chain. Hashirama made a mental note to give Madara enough space: the kusarigama, a sickle attached by a chain to a weighted ball, was made to be swung in a wide circle, and Hashirama wasn’t keen on getting in the way.

Tobirama’s three scouts returned within a couple minutes, reporting that the Uzumaki were on a controlled retreat to the southeast, holding out against a much larger Hagoromo army advancing from the north. Hashirama rapidly formed a plan.

“Tobirama, you take half of our samurai, circle around the hill and attack from the west. I’ll attack from the south, directly ahead.”

“Agreed, Anija.”

Hashirama turned to face Madara. “Which of us will you join?”

“I’ll remain with you, Hashirama. You’ll need more support on the direct assault.”

“Very well. Tōka, you’re with Tobirama.”

“Got it, Boss!”

“I’ll wait for your signal.” Hashirama watched Tobirama give his orders, and ride off to the left with Tōka and his half of the Senju warriors. That left Hashirama only about sixty samurai, plus Madara’s twenty Uchiha, which meant he at least wouldn’t have any trouble directing his troops. It also meant that they needed to strike as quickly and decisively as possible, and make full use of the element of surprise. Hashirama took a breath.

“My samurai,” he called, “Senju and Uchiha! We’re going to smash right through the Hagoromo and cut their army to pieces! Give me wedge formation, with spears in the front, swords directly behind, and archers at the back. When we charge, we’re going to ride over and down that hill directly ahead. Archers, hang back at the top and cover our charge.”

“_Yes, sir!_”

It took only a few moments for the small army to rearrange itself, and nothing was left to do but wait for Tobirama to give his signal. Hashirama put his hand on the hilt of his sword, feeling his heart start to race.

“At last we strike back at the Hagoromo!” Madara said suddenly. His eyes were blazing, his black-gloved hands tight on the chain of the kusarigama. He swung the weighted end in a lazy circle, thrumming out a slow, ominous beat. Raising his voice, he said, “Remember the honour of your clans!”

The whistle of a kabura-ya, Tobirama’s signal arrow, rang across the hills; Hashirama saw the arrow rise from the trees to his left, and watching it, drew his sword and held it aloft. “On my mark,” he called. The arrow reached its zenith, dipped, fell back, reached the trees – Hashirama chopped down with his sword, pointing it straight ahead, and charged. Behind him, the Senju and Uchiha samurai roared their battle cries.

It took only seconds for Hashirama to reach the top of the hill and see the two armies laid out before him. There was barely time for him to think; he spotted the banners of the Hagoromo, clotted at the base of the hill, and directed his horse straight for them, Madara racing at his side. The enemy samurai grew larger in Hashirama’s view; in a few heartbeats, he was almost upon them. The warriors closest to him, taken by surprise, began to turn to face this new threat, but too late – Hashirama crashed at full speed into the ranks of the Hagoromo.

The enemy soldiers were mounted, as he was, but Hashirama had the advantage of momentum. He let that momentum carry him forwards into the ranks of the enemy, knowing his own warriors were at his back, and used his speed to enhance the power of his sword strokes. He cut down two men before they could properly turn to face him; a third found himself entangled in the chain of Madara’s kusarigama and yanked off his horse. Hashirama looked to his right in time to see Madara catch another samurai under the chin with the sickle half of his weapon, flipping the man backwards in a spray of blood. Hashirama’s heartbeat roared in his ears, the chaos of battle threatening to drown him – but he had learned long ago how to keep his head in the midst of bloodshed. Even as he laid about him with his sword, he looked back to check the progress of his troops behind him. No time to pause; they were going to plough right through this army.

Time always moved strangely in the midst of a fight, each moment stretching itself out and yet running together like the blood rushing in his ears. Hashirama had no idea how far he had made it through the ranks of the enemy before he realized: they were beginning to retreat. Enemy samurai were streaming past on either side; he picked up speed, intending to follow, when a warrior in bright red armour appeared beside him.

“Tell your men to fall back!” she shouted. Hashirama glanced towards her for long enough to confirm the Uzumaki flag on her back, and note the commander’s baton she carried in her hand. That was enough; Hashirama didn’t hesitate. He stood in his stirrups, making himself as visible as possible, and held up a closed fist.

“_Senju, retreat!_” he bellowed. His samurai were scattered behind him – and somehow, in the chaos, he’d lost sight of Madara – but he heard his command echoed in the voices of his warriors. After a moment, another signal arrow went up, sending the order to fall back whistling over their heads.

Hashirama turned his horse back, following his samurai, and the Uzumaki commander fell into step with him. Once they had put some distance between themselves and the retreating Hagoromo, she abruptly cut him off by riding in front of his horse, forcing him to stop.

“I don’t remember ordering reinforcements,” she said. Now that Hashirama got a good look at her, he saw that her chestplate was painted with a beautiful design of a nine-tailed fox, done in bright red paint that shone even in the dim evening light.

“You must be Uzumaki Mito!” he exclaimed.

The woman removed her helmet, revealing hair that was as strikingly red as the fox on her chest. “You seem to know my name,” the leader of the Uzumaki clan replied. “May I know yours?”

Hashirama suddenly remembered that he wasn’t wearing any identifying clan crests. “I apologize, Mito-dono. My name is Senju Hashirama.” He bowed from the waist, politely.

She didn’t move. “Senju? Hmm. At least you can follow instructions. You did well to call your troops back when I bid you; the way you were going, you were heading straight into a marsh. Not ideal for warriors on horseback.”

Hashirama tried not to gape. “You led the Hagoromo here on purpose?” He was beginning to have an inkling of how this woman had managed to hold out against Hagoromo Iesada for so long.

“I wish them a happy retreat,” said Uzumaki Mito. “Now, if you please, Senju Hashirama: what is your business here?”

“Mito-dono,” said Hashirama, looking her in the eye, “I am here to negotiate an alliance with you.”

“An alliance?” Her face was carefully blank; Hashirama couldn’t tell what she was thinking behind that blank mask. “Very well. I have my troops to see to, but you may make your case in my command tent in three hours’ time. Until then, ask my retainers where your soldiers can set up camp.” Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled her horse around and was gone.

Left to gather his thoughts in the wake of his first meeting with Uzumaki Mito, Hashirama suddenly had the feeling that the battlefield ahead of him was going to be much tougher than the one he’d just left.

\---

Hashirama hadn’t seen Madara in formal clothes since the treaty negotiations with the Uchiha. He’d only added a dark blue haori over his usual kimono, but with the moonlight glinting off his long hair, Hashirama thought he looked more mysterious and forbidding than he remembered – although maybe that was the dark expression on his face.

“Looking sharp, Madara,” Hashirama teased him anyways. Then, his eye caught on the two swords Madara was wearing at his side: “A little too sharp, actually!” Madara gave him an exasperated look as Hashirama chuckled at his own joke. “But seriously, you have to leave those. We’re trying to be friendly!”

“We’re going to be surrounded by armed warriors. I don’t see what the issue is,” Madara complained, but he untied the swords from his sash and turned to toss the pair back into his tent. With the swords gone, Hashirama suddenly noticed that he was wearing the fan they’d found at Kamachi – Izuna’s tessen – hanging at his waist. The sight sent a pang of sorrow through him. He couldn’t forget what Madara had lost, and what motivated him, not now at this critical juncture.

As Madara turned to face him again, Hashirama hid his thoughts, gave a cheerful smile, and said, “Let’s go find the rest of our team.”

Walking through their hastily-assembled camp, it didn’t take the pair of them long to find Naori –wearing her hair pinned meticulously at the back of her head instead of down, like she usually wore it – then Tōka, and finally Tobirama, who for a moment looked annoyed that Madara was wearing the same colour haori as he was. All three of them were clearly exhausted, but trying to pretend otherwise; only Madara, whose eyes always sported dark circles, looked no different from usual. Uzumaki Mito must be truly wary of them, to insist that negotiations begin so soon after a battle – and she’d been fighting longer than they had.

Hashirama had been instructed to leave his small army a short distance away from the Uzumaki camp, so it took a few minutes for the five samurai to cross from their camp to the Uzumaki’s. It was nearly midnight, but the moon was bright, and the lanterns of the Uzumaki gave off a steady glow. They were met almost immediately by three armed guards, who escorted them to a large tent marked with the red nine-tailed fox: the personal symbol of Uzumaki Mito. The inside of the command tent was empty of people, but was well-lit with lanterns and furnished, Hashirama was relieved to note, with comfortable-looking mats.

Before he could get the chance to sit, the tent flap opened again and in swept Mito herself. Though she’d been in battle barely three hours before, she looked alert and composed; immaculate in a deep red kimono, she had her hair done in an unusual but elaborate style, with two knots on either side of her head. She wore no weapons, but carried her commander’s baton tucked into her sash. Two men followed a respectful step behind her as she walked through the tent, and positioned themselves at her back when she finally stopped and faced her guests.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, although her voice was cool and conveyed very little welcome. “I am Uzumaki Mito. Hashirama-dono, will you introduce your friends?”

Hashirama cleared his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mito-dono. May I present Daimyō Uchiha Madara; his retainer, Uchiha Naori; my brother, Senju Tobirama; and my cousin, Senju Tōka.” Each of the assembled samurai bowed politely, save Madara, who gave only a regal nod.

The Uzumaki leader nodded in return. “Senju and Uchiha together at my door,” she murmured thoughtfully, as if to herself. Her voice was melodic, but her speech carried authority. Hashirama knew she had a reputation for being very beautiful, and he supposed he wouldn’t contest that; but his foremost impression of Uzumaki Mito was that she had a presence equal to that of any daimyō he’d ever dealt with. “Please be seated,” she said formally, and everyone arranged themselves facing each other in a rough circle, sitting seiza on the mats.

“Now, Hashirama-dono, if I understand correctly, you are here to make an alliance with my clan. My I ask: why would you want to ally with us now? You must know we have no military power to spare.”

It was refreshing, if a bit surprising, to open a negotiation with a rival daimyō without any formalities or polite small talk before getting to the details. Hashirama supposed that the Uzumaki didn’t really have the time to chat, and decided he’d better be as concise as possible. He launched into an abbreviated account of the events of the last two months, explaining the Hagoromo Iesada’s quiet defeat of the Uchiha and the threats he’d made against the Senju, though he left out Madara’s capture. He detailed his plan to end Iesada’s conquests and made his case for an alliance between Senju, Uchiha, and Uzumaki, emphasizing their need to defeat a common enemy. He promised the full strength of the Senju to throw against the Hagoromo in the coming battles, and finally, came to the part he’d been dreading. Steeling himself, Hashirama said:

“To guarantee the success of our alliance, I am also extending an offer of marriage to you, Uzumaki Mito. With this union, you will have the full might of the Senju clan at your disposal. Joining our two clans with a marriage of their leaders will surely make us both stronger.”

The significance of what he’d just suggested made Hashirama’s insides feel hollow, but Uzumaki Mito barely betrayed any reaction at all; her eyes only narrowed, very slightly. “So the Senju clan offers their leader’s hand in marriage,” she said, and turned towards Madara. “What of the Uchiha clan?”

“We offer nothing,” said Madara coldly. Hashirama suppressed a wince; diplomacy had never really been Madara’s strong suit, but this treaty was too important for his friend to give in to his pride.

Thankfully, his young clanmate had better sense. “Mito-sama, our clan is still recovering from the betrayal we suffered at the hands of the Hagoromo. We can promise warriors for the attack on Iesada’s fortress, and cannons for the final assault, but right now we have only twenty samurai to fight alongside you. The Uchiha here will fight to our dying breaths, but we can offer you nothing more.” Naori gave a small bow as she finished speaking.

“Don’t be so concerned, Naori-san,” said Uzumaki Mito. “Actually, I don’t have an issue with the Uchiha. But you, Senju Hashirama – ” she swung around to pin him with a piercing stare. “_You_ are a problem.”

Hashirama managed not to squirm under her gaze. “That’s unfortunate, Mito-dono,” he said. “I was hoping to be a solution.”

“But a problem you are nonetheless.” Mito fingered the commander’s baton at her belt. “When I accepted leadership of the Uzumaki clan, I was charged with two things: keeping our clan safe, and keeping it independent. If you ever visit Uzushio, you will understand that our way of life is unique among the clans, and very important to us. I have only led this clan for six years, but in that time, many daimyō have tried to take our independence from us and claim the Uzumaki for their own. Some, like Hagoromo Ieasada, have tried it by force. Others,” she dipped her head in his direction, “have tried it through marriage.”

“Mito-sama,” Tobirama broke in, “we’re not trying to gain control of your clan. What we’re proposing is an equal partnership, sealed by marriage.”

“That may be the case,” Mito replied, “and your intentions may be good, though I have no guarantee of that. But the fact is that if I marry the leader of the Senju clan, my status in the eyes of the world will be less than his. How can I be certain that you won’t try to take advantage of this fact – if not now, then why not in ten, twenty years?” She shook her head gently. “No matter what agreement we work out between us, Senju Hashirama will gain power over the Uzumaki. For that reason I absolutely refuse any offer of marriage.”

Her words filled Hashirama with a cold dread. Far from proving his sincerity, this plan to suggest marriage had been the worst possible move; how had they not considered this? Pulling himself together, he said, “I apologize for my lack of foresight, Mito-dono, and accept your refusal. But an alliance between us is still possible without a marriage, and I believe is mutually necessary for the survival of both of our clans. Will you agree to the plan we have proposed?”

“Perhaps,” said Mito, her eyes glittering in the lantern light. “I won’t lie to you, Hashirama-dono: we are in a desperate situation. We can’t hope to match the resources Hagoromo Iesada has thrown at this war – without your help, it’s only a matter of time before my clan will fall. But I would rather fall in honourable battle than be betrayed by a false friend.”

“Our situation is as desperate as yours!” protested Tobirama. “We can’t stand against the Hagoromo alone, especially if they attack us from your conquered territory.”

“Your resources still far exceed ours. If we win this war together, you could decide to snap up my weakened clan and expand your territory three times.” Mito leaned forwards, putting extra emphasis on her next words. “If you need this alliance as badly as you say, then prove it. Make me another offer in exchange for my cooperation with your plan.”

Even as Hashirama’s mind raced to come up with something, he couldn’t help but be impressed at the way Mito had wrested control of the negotiations. Her clan was in a poor position to bargain, and yet here he was desperately thinking of some way to appease her. Tobirama, at his side, looked similarly constipated, but Tōka looked thoughtful.

“May I make a suggestion?” she asked. At Hashirama’s nod, she continued, “With Hashirama’s approval, I will leave his service and swear loyalty to you, Mito-sama.”

“Interesting. Please go on,” said Mito.

“My personal estate consists of forty samurai and three hundred ashigaru. Consider these troops as a gesture of goodwill from the Senju clan, as you could command me, and them, however you want. That will deter Hashirama from ever attacking you, since it would mean fighting his cousin.”

“Your loyalty is not merely for the duration of this war, then?”

“I ask that you allow my warriors to go back to their homes after the war, if they so wish, but I will continue to serve you.” Tōka remained composed as she said this, sitting with her back straight and head high.

Mito held her gaze intently, as if trying to read her intentions from her eyes. “And if you betray me?” she asked.

“Then have me executed,” replied Tōka evenly.

“Wait, Tōka!” Hashirama broke in, finally finding his voice. “I’m not about to use you as a hostage!”

“I won’t _be_ a hostage, Hashirama,” she replied, looking at him with sincerity in her face. “I choose to enter Uzumaki Mito’s service of my own free will. If you let me, that is.”

“It’s still practically the same! The Uzumaki could hold your life in exchange for any demands they like.”

“They won’t do that,” Tōka assured him, “because the Senju, as Mito-sama just admitted, are still the stronger clan. If I’m the only bargaining chip they have, they won’t destroy me for some petty reason, and I know you well enough to understand you would never betray an alliance. I’ll be as safe as I’ve ever been in my life.”

Into the silence that followed, Mito said, “These terms are acceptable to me. What do you say, Hashirama-dono?”

The thought of Tōka leaving for another clan struck Hashirama to the core, but she showed no signs of hesitation or doubt; if this was truly her decision, he wouldn’t stand in the way of it, not when he saw no other option to gain Mito’s trust. Hashirama bowed until his forehead touched the ground and said, “Uzumaki Mito, you are gaining the service of a loyal samurai and irreplaceable friend. Please take care of her.” His eyes stung with unshed tears.

“I promise to treat her as my own family,” Mito replied solemnly. As Hashirama straightened from his bow, he saw her look at Tōka with a small smile, the first he’d seen, on her lips. “Welcome to the Uzumaki clan, Senju Tōka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken plenty of liberties with the historical accuracy of this fic, but the existence of a female daimyo isn't one of them! If you want to learn more you should look up Ii Naotora, who, based on my super quick research, apparently was a huge badass.
> 
> I also learned from Wikipedia that the kusarigama is banned in Canada because of 'centrifugal force laws' - so, it's fine to have a big sickle, but if you attach it to a long chain for swinging that's illegal. Thanks Wikipedia!


	7. The Village of Whirlpools

Uzushio was unlike any place Hashirama had ever seen before. He’d been told that the town was built on a river, but he’d naturally assumed that meant it was built along the riverbank, which turned out to be…not quite right. The town indeed sprawl across what had once been riverbank, but generations of Uzumaki ancestors had carved that riverbank into a series of canals branching off of the main river like blood vessels from an artery. The result was a village with water for streets, where neighbouring buildings were connected by bridges and stairways started in the water and ended in doorways. The daimyō’s residence, an elegant but unassuming building, wasn’t on the riverbank at all, but rather occupied a strategically important spot on a tiny island in the middle of the river. Getting to the castle would be difficult for an invading force, but posed no problem for the residents of Uzushio, who steered boats through the village as easily as walking.

With its watery streets lined with weeping willows, and the mist that rose from the canals in the morning and burned off in the heat of the sun, Uzushio had a dreamlike and mysterious beauty that enthralled Hashirama – and he wasn’t alone in that. Tobirama, upon glimpsing Uzushio for the first time, had exclaimed, “I’ve never seen anything so _incredible!_” with such sincerity that Hashirama had turned around to check that it was really his cynical little brother standing there. Hashirama had forgotten that in his childhood, Tobirama had loved the water the way Hashirama loved the forests – another thing lost in the endless cycle of war. Tobirama’s obvious enthusiasm and natural talent for boatcraft instantly endeared him to the Uzumaki, who were fond of asking Hashirama if he was sure his brother was _really_ a Senju (Hashirama, by contrast, had a habit of stepping a bit too close to the edge of his boat and threatening to tip the whole thing over). Even Madara was impressed with the natural fortifications so gracefully integrated into the town, though Hashirama could tell he was anxious to hear from his clan.

Hashirama and his allies had been in Uzushio for nearly three weeks now, enough time for several hundred new Senju warriors to arrive and begin training with the Uzumaki, but they’d received no word from the Uchiha. Mito, after officially agreeing to join Hashirama’s alliance, had suggested Uzushio as a rendezvous point for the armies of all three clans: the town was located near the current position of the invading Hagoromo, though not so near that they feared attack; and the river provided a convenient method of transportation for troops and supplies. Hashirama and Madara had both immediately sent messages to their respective clans, but Madara’s had thus far gone unanswered. Uchiha territory was at least week’s travel from Uzushio, so the lack of a response wasn’t too worrying – yet – but it left Madara at a loose end. Thanks to Tōka’s preparations, the Senju armies had been ready to mobilize, so Hashirama was now occupied with organizing and training his newly arrived troops. Madara helped, to some degree, but the Senju samurai were a little wary of him, particularly after an ill-advised sparring session that left two of Hashirama’s men with broken bones. Hashirama’s suggestion that Madara go a little easier on his opponents was met with a derisive laugh; as a result Madara had subsequently been banned from sparring with anyone other than Hashirama. Madara’s own clanmates, as it turned out, knew better than to even try.

But despite the occasional hiccup, everything was proceeding quite smoothly – at least, that’s what Hashirama thought, walking along the riverbank. A makeshift training ground had been set up here, just south of Uzushio proper, and the Senju samurai and ashigaru were using the space to run through drills alongside the Uzumaki. The different clans clearly had a lot to learn from one another; even the small number of Uchiha who’d come with them from Kamachi had contributed a few tricks. Watching his people, Hashirama felt a familiar, conflicting set of emotions: pride coupled with a painful sense of responsibility. It was because of him that all these troops were here, preparing for war instead of home with their families. Hashirama nodded and smiled at the warriors who bowed to him as he passed, and secretly wondered how many of those faces would be missing in a few weeks’ time. But he knew from experience that it did no good to dwell on those thoughts – all he could do now was try to ensure that his troops were as well-prepared as possible.

Walking through training ground, Hashirama realized he wasn’t the only clan leader who had thought to check up on his troops’ progress: Mito was here as well, standing with her hands clasped as she watched a group of soldiers train with spears. Hashirama headed in her direction, raising a hand to wave and calling, “Good morning, Mito-dono!”

She turned to face him as he came to stand beside her. “Oh, good morning, Hashirama-dono.”

“Warm day, isn’t it?” Hashirama asked, opting for friendly small talk. It was the middle of summer now, and the weather was, in fact, scorching hot.

She gave him a polite smile in return. “Indeed. I’m glad not to be wearing armour today.”

“Happy to be back in Uzushio, then?” Hashirama hadn’t seen much of Mito since arriving in Uzushio; the Uzumaki leader had spent much of the last three weeks on the battlefield, trying to slow the advance of the Hagoromo.

Mito nodded. “I’m glad that the fighting has let up a bit now, but I can only assume it’s because the Hagoromo are preparing for a more serious assault. I figured I’d better see how our preparations are coming along.”

“I had the same thought. May I join you?”

“If you wish.” Mito began to walk through the training grounds, letting Hashirama keep pace at her side.

As they walked, Hashirama’s attention was split between watching the soldiers around them and watching Mito watch the soldiers, hoping to find in her face some hint of her thoughts. He was disappointed: as always, Mito maintained a careful façade, giving Hashirama no clue as to what she was thinking.

“Our warriors seem to work together well,” Hashirama tried.

“The troops you sent to work with me didn’t disappoint, I’ll grant that much. They don’t know our strategies, of course, but they were willing to listen to my instructions, which I appreciate.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, Mito-dono.” Hashirama spotted a pair of samurai dueling with wooden swords. “Oh look, it’s Tōka! This should be good – let’s watch.” She was fighting an Uzumaki samurai, and clearly holding the upper hand.

Mito stopped to watch as well, and commented, “She’s very good. Better than me, I’d say, if we’re talking swords alone.”

“Oh? What’s your weapon of choice, if not the sword?”

“I like the naginata, personally.” She was talking about a long staff with a curved blade on the end; a weapon well-suited for a warrior of smaller size, as Mito was. “Although I have to say, I liked the look of that chained weapon I saw your friend wielding.”

Hashirama remembered what Madara had been using during their first meeting with the Uzumaki. “Oh, the kusarigama?”

“Yes, that’s it. Just looking at that thing clearly terrified the enemy soldiers.”

“That’s Madara for you,” said Hashirama. Striking fear into the hearts of his enemies, and admiration into the hearts of idiot leaders of the Senju clan who should _really not think too hard about that_. On impulse, Hashirama suggested, “Why don’t you ask him to teach you how to use it?”

Mito tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You know, I think I will,” she replied.

Hashirama blinked. “You should! Once you get to know him, he makes an excellent friend.” While his suggestion had been genuine, he hadn’t expected Mito to actually accept it. He was used to people being put at ease by him and intimidated by Madara; but Mito seemed perfectly comfortable with the prospect of asking Madara for help, while she had been keeping Hashirama at careful arm’s length. Had Hashirama done something to make Mito suspicious of him? He’d been trying so hard to be friendly, and not just because a good relationship between them would be beneficial to their alliance – Mito was someone who understood what it was to lead a clan, who cared for her people as Hashirama did for his. Without thinking, Hashirama said, “I’d like for us to be friends as well.”

When Mito turned to face him, her expression was regretful. “I might like that too, Hashirama-dono. You really strike me as a good and honest man.” She turned back towards Tōka’s fight, watching the two samurai as they continued to struggle. “But unfortunately, I can’t let myself forget who you are.”

“And that is…?”

She gestured expansively at their surroundings, at the warriors training in every direction. “The orchestrator of all of this. I know what you’ve accomplished in the past, Hashirama-dono, so I have no doubt you really are the one who thought up this plan to unite our three clans. Perhaps someone else could have conceived the idea, but I’m certain only you could have made this alliance a reality.” The corner of her mouth turned up in a tiny, rueful smile. “You might be the most frightening samurai I’ve ever dealt with.”

“Me?” asked Hashirama incredulously.

“Don’t mistake me; I’m glad you’re on my side. But please understand: with something as important as this alliance, I have to act in the best interests of my clan. I can’t afford to be blinded by personal feelings.”

_So that’s it_, Hashirama thought. He’d been so desperately trying to read Mito’s true thoughts, thinking she concealed herself so cleverly – and here she’d been doing the same to him. She had greatly overestimated him, of course, since really, he had his clanmates and Madara to thank for his successes. He was surprised she thought so highly of his capabilities, to be so thoroughly deceiving her…but most of all, her answer saddened him. Mito was more similar to him than he had realized, and yet he had no way of showing her what was truly in his heart. “I understand,” he told her, and didn’t press further.

In front of them, Tōka’s opponent lost his footing and stumbled; she helped him along with a hard shove, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Tōka gave a breathless laugh as the watching Senju warriors cheered, and then extended a hand to the fallen samurai to pull him to his feet.

“Well done, Tōka!” shouted Hashirama.

Tōka looked up; when she spotted her audience, her face lit with a huge grin. “Hey, Hashirama!” She sauntered over, casually twirling her practice sword in hand, and stopped in front of Mito. “Hello, Mito-sama,” she said, and bowed – just a touch longer than she really needed to. That was a little odd; Tōka wasn’t usually one to stand on ceremony.

“Hello, Tōka-san. That was really quite impressive,” said Mito.

“Thank you, Mito-sama. That means a lot, coming from someone who fights like you do.”

“Oh! That’s – it’s not – I mean, thank you.”

Hashirama looked at her in surprise. Had she just…stammered? Cool and collected Mito?

“I’d _love_ the chance to spar with you sometime,” Tōka said smoothly. “If you’ll forgive me being so presumptuous, Mito-sama,” she added, and gave her new daimyō a sidelong look from under her lashes.

Was she…_flirting? _Hashirama gave Tōka a look that he hoped conveyed, _Are you serious? I’m standing right here! _Tōka, unsurprisingly, completely ignored him.

“Not at all, Tōka-san. I’m sure that could be arranged,” replied Mito.

“You promise not to go easy on me, Mito-sama?”

Hashirama increased the intensity of his disapproving look, to no avail.

Mito covered her face with her sleeve, like a dainty noble lady, and giggled.

_Giggled?!_

“As if I’d be able to!” said Mito. Hashirama strongly suspected her of blushing behind that shielding sleeve – and just like that, several things suddenly made a lot more sense. Hashirama had to press his lips together to prevent himself from grinning. It seemed that he and Mito really did have more in common than he’d realized.

“Tōka-san!” The Uzumaki Tōka had been fighting was calling her name, beckoning her back for more training.

“I’d better go,” said Tōka. “But please feel free to stay and watch, Mito-sama.” She bowed again; Mito dipped her head in reply.

“Good luck, Tōka-san,” Mito murmured. Here gaze lingered on her newest retainer as Tōka trotted back to her training partners, starting up what appeared to be an animated discussion about the match.

Hashirama tried to school his face into a blank expression, with what he thought was probably limited success. “By the way, Mito-dono,” he said casually. “The reasons you gave for refusing my marriage proposal were all very sound. But I have to wonder if my clan might have had better luck if someone else had made that proposal – say, for example…my cousin?”

“_What?”_ Mito whipped her head around to face him, shock plain on her face; Hashirama couldn’t hold back a grin at finally breaking through her emotionless façade. But she rallied quickly, and shot back: “What about you, Hashirama-dono? Are you sure you didn’t really want to make that proposal to someone else – say, for example…the leader of the Uchiha clan?”

Now it was Hashirama’s turn to splutter in dismay. “Wha – I don’t – why would – ” Mito let out a gleeful cackle at his consternation, and Hashirama gave up trying to deny it. “How did you know?” he sighed in defeat. “I thought I was being pretty subtle!”

“Oh, you’re actually not half bad! That was mostly a guess,” Mito admitted, smiling. “He was the one who tipped me off.”

“_Madara_ did?!” Hashirama could hardly believe it. “How? What did he say?”

Mito held up her hands to stave off his rapid-fire questions. “Didn’t you see the way he looked when you made that marriage proposal? He looked about ready to strangle someone!”

“Oh,” Hashirama said, disappointed. “He’s just like that all the time, Mito-dono.”

“Not with you,” she pointed out.

“That’s different. We’re friends from childhood.”

“Oho, childhood friends, is it?” Mito’s eyes were sparkling. “That’s interesting, because I’ve heard all these stories about how the two of you were great enemies. Ooh, don’t tell me – you never wanted to do battle with him, but you did it anyways for the good of your clan.”

“I did!” Hashirama wailed dramatically, covering his face with his hands.

Looking amused at his theatrics, Mito said, “But you have a treaty with the Uchiha now. So what’s the problem?”

Hashirama dropped his hands and his dramatic act to give her a serious answer. “You said it yourself. With something like this, I have to act in the best interests of my clan, regardless of my personal feelings. Mito-dono, I believe you understand.”

She gave him a look of sympathy. “Yes, I think I do. You and I are both the type to put responsibilities first. However – ” she glanced at Tōka, who was busy demonstrating a move to her new Uzumaki friends, “ – if you can find a way to achieve what you want without compromising the safety of your clan, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t allow yourself to be happy.”

“Thank you, Mito-dono,” said Hashirama in surprise. “I…hope I’ll be able to do that.”

“Good luck,” said Mito, with a smile several degrees warmer than her usual polite mask. “Oh, and Hashirama – if we’re going to be working together, you might as well call me Mito.”

Hashirama felt a smile spread across his own face at that. “Mito, then,” he said.

The two of them stood side by side in companionable silence for several minutes, until Mito suddenly said, “So, your cousin. Does she, by any chance, like…redheads?”

Hashirama burst out laughing as Mito hid her face with her sleeve again. “Oh, I’m not sure she’s ever met a redhead like you before!” he said when he’d caught his breath. “But I’ve known her since childhood, so I can tell you that by the looks of things, you’ve got a pretty good shot.”

“Good to know,” Mito murmured. “Hashirama, I’d say these next few weeks are really looking up.”

\---

Later, Hashirama managed to catch Tōka just as she was heading from the training grounds to go clean up. “Tōka,” he said sternly, “Did you pledge yourself to a foreign clan leader and make yourself a key piece of a critical treaty…because you thought it might get you laid? Answer me honestly.”

Tōka tried for an innocent face and missed by a significant margin. “It was for the good of the Senju clan,” she said earnestly, but her eyes said, _That’s absolutely what I did_.

\---

“I have some news to share with you,” Mito announced. She had summoned the official representatives of her allied clans – and Tōka, although she was technically a part of the Uzumaki clan now – to a meeting at her residence, just a few days after Hashirama’s conversation with her at the training grounds.

Madara shifted impatiently in his place. “Have you heard anything from my clan?” he demanded.

“That’s right. My messenger arrived just a few hours ago with news of the Uchiha.” She looked around at the anxious faces surrounding her, and broke into a small smile. “It’s good news. A force of eight hundred soldiers is on its way to Uzushio, led by Uchiha Hikaku.”

Madara’s eyes widened; beside him, Naori’s face lit up with joy. Tōka, sitting next to her, punched her gently on the shoulder in celebration.

“Eight hundred?” exclaimed Hashirama. “That’s nearly twice what you predicted, Madara!”

“It looks as though my clan has some fire left after all,” Madara replied. “Did Hikaku send a message for me?”

Mito handed him a folded letter, which he tucked into his sleeve. “We’ll be sending boats to meet the Uchiha forces when they get to the river. They should be here in Uzushio in about ten days, at which point we need to be ready to march.”

“Hold on,” objected Madara. “We can’t march immediately once my clan gets here. My warriors need time to rest and prepare, just as you Senju have been doing.”

“They can rest on the boats,” said Tobirama testily.

“We really can’t prepare for much longer,” Mito informed them. “According to my spies, the Hagoromo have nearly received their last reinforcements. When they march for Uzushio, we’ll have no choice but to meet them.”

“Can we continue to delay them?” asked Tōka.

“They’re massing a force of five thousand men. Unfortunately, there’s a limit to what I can do with my small-scale ambushes – with that kind of power, they’ll just smash right through me.”

“Well, can we face them without the Uchiha?” Tobirama suggested.

Hashirama shook his head. “If we split up our forces, we risk losing everything. We need to throw everything we have at these invaders, and for that, we need the Uchiha.” He turned to Mito. “How far can we let the Hagoromo march before we need to face them?”

Mito stood, selected a sheet of paper from a nearby drawer, and returned to show them a finely drawn map of the Uzumaki territory. She traced a path across the map with one finger. “Here’s where the Hagoromo are now. As they move towards Uzushio, they’ll follow the river – it’s the easiest terrain for an army – and end up _here_.” She tapped a spot where the river, marked on the map, met a smaller tributary. “We have the opportunity right here to trap the enemy against the river and decrease the advantage of their numbers. But if we let them get any further, we risk an attack on Uzushio.”

“Is a siege out of the question?” asked Hashirama.

“Uzushio was designed to resist a siege, true, but not at this scale. Between our three clans, we can’t fit all of our defenders into the town. That makes Uzushio’s protections all but useless. No, Hashirama, we have to defeat the Hagoromo in the field.”

“I’d much prefer an open fight anyways,” said Madara, drawing a few murmurs of agreement. Privately, Hashirama agreed as well; sieges were a messy business.

“Then we need a strategy to slow down the Hagoromo as much as possible, to give the Uchiha a little more time,” Hashirama announced.

“We could go after their supply train,” Naori offered. “With an army of that size, they must have a lot of food and other resources. I hate to say it, but destroying supplies was pretty effective when the Hagoromo tried it with us.”

Tobirama nodded. “We know the path they’ll take, right? If it’s traps we need, I have a few ideas.”

The discussion stretched on for hours as the six of them debated back and forth. There were endless strategies to be worked out: how to ensure the Hagoromo were stopped at the right place; how to get their own armies there most efficiently; what still needed to be done to prepare for the battle; and most significant of all, how to defeat the enemy army when it finally came time to cross swords. Finally, Mito called an end to the meeting, saying she needed to consult with her advisers before devising more plans.

It was nearly midnight when Hashirama stepped out of the lantern-lit buildings of the Uzumaki. On the island of Uzushio, the water of the river reflected back the light of the half moon, casting everything in a silvery glow. As Tobirama stepped into a boat to return to the riverbank, Hashirama spotted Madara standing by himself a little way away, silhouetted against the moon.

“You go on ahead,” Hashirama told his brother. “I’ll head back in a few minutes.”

Tobirama raised his eyebrows, but only said, “I’ll see you later, then, Anija,” and pushed off with an oar to send his boat skimming gracefully through the water.

Hashirama wandered along the shoreline, hands tucked in his sleeves, and came up behind Madara just as his friend flicked out a hand and threw a rock across the river. Both of them watched as the rock flew across the water and skipped seven times before sinking and vanishing.

“I bet I can do better than that,” said Hashirama.

Madara jumped comically at his voice and spun around. He relaxed when he saw who it was standing there, then scowled at Hashirama’s laugh, folding his arms in disapproval. “Oh, it’s you, Hashirama. I thought you’d outgrown your habit of sneaking up behind me.”

“Some things you never outgrow,” Hashirama returned. He bent down to pick a flat stone from the bank of the island. “For example…” he said, and he straightened, took careful aim, and snapped his arm forwards to send the rock flying. His rock managed eight skips before finally sinking; Hashirama dusted his hands smugly and looked at Madara for a response.

Madara met Hashirama’s challenging look with one of his own. He took his time selecting a rock, then crouched to throw it, twisting his body for extra power as he threw. The rock hit the water and bounced four, six, eight…nine times in all.

“Ugh,” said Hashirama as Madara threw out his arms and reveled in his victory. “I can still beat that!”

He picked a new rock and shuffled as close as he could get to the water, trying to get the right angle on his throw. He was concentrating on the rock in his hand and not paying attention to his feet, so he didn’t notice just how close he’d gotten to the edge until the bank beneath his foot suddenly gave way. Hashirama flailed his arms in an attempt to regain his balance, but to no avail: the next thing he knew, he was plunged, with an enormous splash, into the river.

Hashirama surfaced immediately, spluttering in shock. The river here was shallow enough to stand, but the water was _cold_, and his unplanned bath was unpleasantly chilly.

“Hashirama! Are you alright?” called Madara from the bank.

Looking up at his worried face, Hashirama cracked a smile – and then, at the same moment, both of them burst out laughing, Madara doubling up onshore as Hashirama floundered in the water. Hashirama tried to clamber back up onto the bank, but found himself laughing too hard to coordinate his movements; Madara, wheezing for breath above him, wasn’t much help either.

“Help me up, help me up!” Hashirama gasped out between bursts of laughter. Madara reached out a hand and pulled his waterlogged friend back onto the bank, though every new wave of laughter threatened to tip Hashirama back into the river. Finally back on dry land, Hashirama stripped off his soaked haori and tried, uselessly, to wring it out. “I can’t believe this!” he complained, though he couldn’t quite stop snickering.

“You should have seen your face,” snorted Madara.

Hashirama pushed back the long strands of hair that were falling out of the knot he wore at the back of his head and gestured to his wet kimono, which was clinging to his body like the fur of a soaked cat. “I’m always the very picture of a dignified samurai,” he deadpanned. For some reason that got a strange look instead of the laugh he’d been hoping for. Wondering at his friend’s reaction, Hashirama shook out his damp haori, and shivered; the night was warm, but his wet clothes were awfully chilly.

“Here.” Hashirama looked up to see Madara holding out his own haori with one hand, looking off to the side as if he suddenly found the river particularly interesting.

For a brief moment, Hashirama’s throat worked but produced no sound. He coughed, and finally managed to say, “Thank you!”. His fingers brushed Madara’s as he took the haori; Hashirama suppressed another shiver, this time not from the cold.

“Have you had enough of stone skipping now?” Madara asked him as he shrugged on the haori.

Hashirama laughed hoarsely. “I think I’m all set!”

“Let’s go, then,” said Madara, heading for the boats moored nearby. Hashirama followed and clambered awkwardly into one of the small wooden boats along with him, earning himself a reprimand for nearly capsizing them.

“Careful!” Madara snapped. “I’d like to stay dry, thanks.”

“Okay! Just watch what you’re doing with that oar!”

Madara, standing at the back of the boat, prodded at the bank with his oar, making the little craft rock dangerously. “I know! I’ve got it.”

“You’re no better at this than I am,” Hashirama accused.

“I told you, I’ve got it!”

“Well, quit poking me with that oar!”

“I’m _trying_ to steer!”

The boat wobbled crazily again, and Hashirama sighed. “Why don’t you just sit down with me? Our camp is downriver anyways. The current will take us in the right direction.”

Madara gave a _hmph_ but actually did as Hashirama suggested, laying the oar across the boat in front of them as he sat. The current was slow, so although they were indeed heading in the right direction, their pace was slow as they floated downriver. For several minutes, the only sound was the gentle lap of wavelets against their boat. Then, Madara broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something, Hashirama?” His eyes were fixed on the silvery droplets of water on the oar as they slowly swelled and dripped onto the boat.

“Of course,” Hashirama replied. He couldn’t quite make out Madara’s expression in the moonlight.

Madara hesitated, swiped a finger across the oar. “If my clan hadn’t sent any warriors to Uzushio, what would you have done?”

“Hmm.” Hashirama briefly considered. “We would still probably have had no choice but to fight. Our strategies would have to change a bit, of course. Maybe we could have taken on the Hagoromo a bit farther from Uzushio? Split their army into two?”

“I mean, what would you have done with _me_?”

“‘Done with you’?” Hashirama had a few ideas in that area, certainly, but none he could really suggest out loud. “Um, I guess I would have asked you to command one of the Senju battalions.”

At that, Madara turned to face him, looking exasperated. “Hashirama, that’s a naïve answer.”

Hashirama frowned in confusion. “Why? You’re an experienced and very capable commander. And didn't you say you wanted to see this fight through?”

“Your soldiers wouldn’t follow someone like me.”

“That’s not true! They might be a bit scared of you, true, but my clan respects your prowess in battle,” Hashirama replied. “I know you would lead them well, if it came to that.”

The moonlight glinted coldly in Madara’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have so much trust in me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’m your enemy!”

Hashirama looked at him sadly. “Do you truly think of yourself as my enemy?”

“Don’t you?”

“No!”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Madara, I – ” As he began to answer, Hashirama realized that he might have an opportunity on his hands. He didn’t dare reveal the true nature of his feelings for Madara – but if he answered this question as honestly as he could, perhaps he could use this chance to finally convince his friend that he genuinely cared for him. Hashirama cleared his throat and said, “I haven’t truly considered you my enemy since I was thirteen years old.”

Madara gave him a skeptical look; Hashirama gathered his thoughts and pressed on. “Even when we really did oppose each other – all those times we faced each other in battle – I couldn’t help but think that if you were my enemy, it was only because of circumstance, and not for any reason that really mattered to either of us. We were both in the same position, weren’t we? I couldn’t hate you for fighting my clan when I was doing the exact same to you. And I always thought, if I could just change the circumstances we were in, maybe – we could be friends again.

“Well, the circumstances have changed now. _We_ changed them, Madara, just as I’d always hoped; and now that we’re finally on the same side, I have no intention of letting you become my enemy again. So, I want you to know: no matter what happens, I will fight to keep you with me, as much as I can.”

“…Huh,” said Madara in a quiet voice. Hashirama watched him for his reaction, and was surprised when his face broke into a reluctant smile. He said, “You know, Hashirama, you really are a terrible samurai.”

Hashirama threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what I’ve been saying! I’ve been telling everyone for years that I should’ve been a gardener.”

Shaking his head, Madara replied, “I don’t think I know any gardeners like you, either.”

“Do you actually know any gardeners?”

“Yes, actually. Back in Kamachi, Hikaku keeps a lovely patch of daikon.”

“Hikaku’s daikon does _not_ count!”

Madara laughed quietly, looking for a moment as happy as Hashirama had seen him since their meeting at the border town. The thought brought a warm glow to Hashirama’s chest; he tried not to stare too openly, tearing his eyes away to glance at the riverbank instead. “Hey, we’re getting close to the camp. Should we steer back towards the shore?”

“Oh, you’re right.” Madara picked up the oar with an air of confidence. “What’s a good spot to land?”

Hashirama squinted at the dark shoreline. “Over there, maybe?” He pointed, and added, “Do you know how to land this thing?”

“…Yes.”

That was a suspicious answer if Hashirama had ever heard one. “Maybe I’ll just swim for it,” he announced, and promptly got a smack on the shoulder with the oar.

\---

Hashirama rubbed a hand over eyes that had been threatening to droop closed for the past hour. It was the middle of the day, but the room was warm, and the paperwork he’d been working on all morning was, though necessary, insufferably boring. For the past week Hashirama had been struggling under a mountain of work: drawing up plans and strategies to discuss with Mito and the others; detailing orders to distribute to his subordinates; looking over requests for supplies from his army; calculating how many days on the road their food stores would last…the list seemed endless. It was disgusting, Hashirama thought, how much paperwork was required of a samurai like him. Although, if he had to stay in self-imposed exile, the breezy room he was borrowing in Uzushio was a lovely place for it, with big windows looking out over the canal. Unfortunately, the view was making Hashirama feel bitter that he was stuck inside instead of out enjoying the lovely summer day. Stifling a yawn, he peered again at the paper in front of him, frowning at the messy scrawl of his own writing across the page.

“Anija! You still in there?” Tobirama’s voice floated in through the open window. Relieved to have a distraction, Hashirama scrambled to his feet and stuck his head through the window, looking for his brother. Tobirama was standing in a boat, bobbing in the canal below. “I thought you might want to know that the Uchiha are about to arrive,” he said.

“They are?” exclaimed Hashirama.

“We can see the boats approaching! They’ll be landing any minute.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go greet them!”

As Hashirama retreated back into the room and started hastily stacking his documents, he just barely heard Tobirama mutter from outside: “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Moments later, Hashirama was stepping carefully from the steps of the house into Tobirama’s boat – he’d more or less gotten the hang of the small Uzushio boats by now – and was momentarily distracted by the enormous sword propped up on the side. “You got your odachi?”

Tobirama nodded with satisfaction. “Came with the last shipment of supplies. I’m a little rusty, though.”

“I’ll help you brush up later, if you want.” Tobirama’s odachi, with a blade nearly as long as he was tall, was a weapon that required considerable skill. “But we should go meet the Uchiha! Oh, and did anyone tell Madara? We should go pick him up too!”

“What am I, your boatman?” Tobirama groused, but pushed off with the oar to send them skimming along the watery street. “I just saw him, actually. He’s already at the landing point.”

“That’s good!” Hashirama was starting to feel strangely nervous; he wasn’t sure how Madara would receive his clanmates, or how these new Uchiha would react to Madara as their leader. If they were here, then they must at least accept the plan he’d put forward, but would they trust Madara enough to follow him into battle? And would Madara trust _them_?

As Tobirama steered out of the canals of Uzushio and into the river proper, Hashirama spotted the ships his brother had mentioned, now close enough that he could just make out people crowded on the decks. Onshore, a small welcoming party had formed: Hashirama recognized several of the Uchiha who had come with them from Kamachi, as well as Madara, standing a bit apart as usual. Hashirama hailed him with a wave and a shout as Tobirama brought the boat up to the bank.

“Oh, it’s the brothers,” Madara said by way of greeting. He spotted the odachi and, with a raised eyebrow, said, “That’s a nice sword, Tobirama. You’re not compensating for anything, are you?”

Hashirama bit his lip to keep from grinning as Tobirama stared blankly at the Uchiha leader. “The odachi is one of the most effective weapons against mounted opponents,” he said, a note of confusion in his voice. Hashirama caught Madara’s eye and had to put a hand over his mouth to suppress a laugh.

“Just keep it in your boat, for now,” Madara said. “I can’t guarantee how the Uchiha on those ships might react if they see you waving that thing. I can only presume they’ve been told the Senju are our allies now.”

“Did Hikaku’s letter give you any details?” Hashirama asked, clambering gracelessly onto the bank.

“Lists of troops, weapons, and supplies. Doesn’t answer the question of _who_ exactly is on those boats.”

“It looks like just about everyone you know!” Hashirama laughed. The nearest boat was drawing close to the shore now, and he could easily make out the people packed on the deck. Hashirama held up a hand and waved at the approaching Uchiha; to his surprise, he got a huge cheer in response, the warriors on the boat yelling and waving back at him. “Hey, your clan is so friendly, Madara!”

Next to him, Madara commented, “Looks like you’re popular.” Hashirama waved enthusiastically and got another cheer as the ship pulled slowly up against the dock. Uzumaki sailors leapt easily from the deck to secure the boat and were followed, more slowly, by the Uchiha warriors, who climbed down a ladder to disembark.

Hashirama heard Madara draw in a deep breath as the first of the Uchiha stepped onto the dock. The man bowed in thanks to the Uzumaki at the base of the ship and headed for land; as he did, Hashirama recognized Hikaku, dressed smartly in light armour and wearing two swords at his hip.

“Hikaku-san! It’s good to see you!” Hashirama called.

Grinning, Hikaku made his way over, stopping to bow to the two clan leaders. “It’s nice to see you again as well, Hashirama-sama.”

Hashirama, remembering his manners, said, “This is my brother, Tobirama. Tobirama, Hikaku-san was one of the coordinators of the peace treaty we signed with the Uchiha. You haven’t met him before, have you?”

Tobirama offered a quick but polite bow, which Hikaku returned. “I don’t believe so. Pleased to meet you, Hikaku-san.”

“Likewise, Tobirama-san. I look forward to working with you.”

Madara broke in. “You’ve been informed of the situation, then?”

“Yes,” said Hikaku with a businesslike nod. “It was a good idea to send Naori with the boats. She explained the position we’re in here – and I believe we will be able to march as soon as we’re needed, Madara-sama.”

“Hikaku,” said Madara, “Just how did you manage to pull this off? The clan was in complete disarray barely two months ago! This is…this is…” he waved a hand at the warriors who were now streaming onto the shore, apparently unable to finish the thought.

Hikaku smiled. “I can’t take the credit for this. The entire clan was just waiting for a way to strike back against the Hagoromo, so now that we have a way forward, everyone wants to help. These are just the people we could gather at short notice – there’s a second force still assembling at Kamachi, preparing to meet us later with the cannons you requested.”

“You’ve done an incredible job, Hikaku-san,” Hashirama assured him. “I’m proud to be fighting alongside your clan.”

The Uchiha pressed his fist to his chest. “You can rely on us, Hashirama-sama.”

“You’ll want to get your people set up,” said Tobirama. “If you’ll follow me, Hikaku-san, I can show you the camp we’ve got prepared for you.”

Hikaku looked at Madara, who waved him on; as he walked off after Tobirama, Hashirama heard him ask, “Is that an odachi you’re holding?”

Hashirama huffed out a laugh and turned back to see if Madara had heard, but his friend was watching his clanmates mingle with the Senju and Uzumaki on the riverbank, his expression uncharacteristically soft. Hashirama wondered if he was feeling the same strange combination of pride and dread that he often felt looking at his own clanmates. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Your clan seems well-prepared,” he said.

“They’ll need to be,” said Madara in a low voice. “We march in four days.”

“The next few days are going to be chaos,” said Hashirama with a wince. “Although I think I prefer that chaos to what comes after.”

“Really?” Madara turned to face him. “My clan needs the time to prepare, but personally, I’m more than ready to face the Hagoromo. I’ve waited long enough for my revenge.”


	8. New and Old Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for mentions of suicide in this chapter.

The mist rising from the river was thicker than Hashirama had ever seen it. The enemy soldiers waiting in front of him were nothing but rough shapes in the fog; the ranks of the assembled Hagoromo army disappeared into the gloom, making it seem as though their forces stretched endlessly into the mist.

“I don’t like these conditions,” Hashirama told Mito, keeping his voice low.

She leaned towards him in her saddle so her words wouldn’t be swallowed by the humid air. “Poor visibility works to our advantage,” she hissed. “Just trust me, Hashirama.”

Mito knew the terrain here, which was all very well for her; Hashirama had no choice but to blindly follow her lead. He gave her a sharp nod in response. The fog was too thick for him to see the river, somewhere off to their left, but he could hear the distant roar of the water. No matter who won this battle, Hashirama knew that by the end of the day the river would run red, carrying bodies downstream for the people of Uzushio to find.

The worst part of any battle, in Hashirama’s experience, was the quiet anticipation that came before the fight. The pulsating thud of his heartbeat in his ears, the restless unease refusing to settle in his gut, the cold sweat seeping through to his armour – all seemingly heightened, now, by the isolation of the fog’s cover. The three armies of the Senju, Uchiha, and Uzumaki were finally here, just as they had planned, face to face with the Hagoromo… and now, they could do nothing but wait.

Mito was expecting an envoy from the Hagoromo to present their terms. She awaited this final negotiation at the head of her army, easily visible in her bright red armour, holding a banner with the Uzumaki spiral as well as her own personal symbol, the nine-tailed fox. The leaders of her allied clans waited at her side – no longer hiding his identity, Hashirama carried a banner with the many-armed symbol of the Senju clan, as well as a tree in bloom, his own symbol. Madara’s banner bore only the fan of the Uchiha clan, but the Gunbai strapped across his back proclaimed his identity clearly enough. The sight of him reminded Hashirama of the days when he used to face his friend in battle, although now, Madara wore plain iron armour to match Hashirama’s, instead of the blue-threaded plates he used to wear. And, of course, he always used to be on the opposite side of the battlefield.

None of the samurai present wore masks – the visibility was too bad to risk further restricting sight – though Tobirama, positioned just behind his brother, wore his customary happuri. Without masks, both Senju brothers wore face paint after the fashion of their clan: Tobirama had stripes of bright red on his chin and each cheekbone, and Hashirama had dark red paint in a circle on his forehead and ringing each eye. Tōka and Naori were both absent from the little gathering; aside from the clan leaders, Tobirama was the only one ranked highly enough to join the negotiation. It wasn’t lost on Hashirama that out of all three clan leaders, he was the only one with a surviving sibling there to carry his banner if he fell.

“Here comes the envoy,” Madara murmured, and an instant later Hashirama spotted the murky shape of a horse and rider advancing towards them through the gloom. He stole a glace at Madara – his friend hated these types of pointless formalities, and Hashirama knew he had to be anxious for the coming battle, but surprisingly, he hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. His impatience was betrayed only by the death grip of his gloved hand around the pole of his banner. Hashirama turned his attention back to the messenger as the samurai approached, the ornate golden crest on his helmet gleaming dully in what little light filtered through the fog. As the messenger drew near, Hashirama made out the purple, ringed eye symbol on the banner he carried.

The rider came to a stop in front of the nine-tailed fox banner. “Am I addressing Uzumaki Mito?” he asked, his speech clipped and careful.

“You are,” replied Mito sharply. “Speak, Messenger.”

“General Hagoromo Katsutoshi demands the unconditional surrender of the Uzumaki clan, its retainers, and its allies,” declared the envoy. “Despite your continued resistance against him, his terms are generous. Following your surrender, the samurai who follow you will be allowed to fight under the banner of the Hagoromo. Your villages and lands will not be harmed. Your people will enjoy the protection of General Katsutoshi. In return, he requires that Uzumaki Mito and the leaders of her allied clans commit suicide by seppuku.”

Mito’s hand clenched on the handle of the commander’s baton tucked into her belt, but her face remained impassive. She said, “Please convey to General Katsutoshi _my_ demand that he and his army leave Uzumaki territory immediately. If he complies with these terms, I’ll happily allow him to keep his head.”

“There is to be no exchange of terms; I have been instructed that the General will accept nothing less than your full cooperation. Uzumaki Mito, you must know that you are outnumbered by nearly a thousand men. Give in now or die in dishonour with your people.”

For a moment Hashirama thought Mito might try to run the man through with the blunt pole of her banner – but she only sneered at him in disgust, lip curling back to show her teeth. “Tell your General that Uzumaki Mito will never surrender!”

“Very well. Prepare yourselves for battle,” snapped the envoy, but Hashirama didn’t miss how hastily he wheeled his horse back in the direction of the invading army.

Watching the messenger’s back recede into the mist, Mito let out a sigh, settled her shoulders, and lifted her banner so the end of the pole was no longer resting on the ground. “Glad that’s over with,” she said, but her voice was grim. “You should return to your battalions now. I hope to see you all after the battle.”

“Take care, Mito,” Hashirama told her, real concern behind the rote phrase. She nodded in acknowledgement before trotting off towards her troops, hidden in the mist. Tobirama clapped Hashirama on the shoulder as he headed past – Hashirama met his eyes but said nothing. After so many battles together, there was nothing Hashirama could tell his little brother that he didn’t already know; instead, he just gave Tobirama what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and told himself he would see his brother soon.

That left only Madara. His friend yanked his banner out of the ground with a violent tug. “Fight well, Hashirama,” he said, and turned to go.

“Madara…” Hashirama scrambled for the right words as Madara paused, waiting, but his anxious thoughts were as nebulous as the mist. “….Watch your back,” was all he said, at last.

Madara gave a careless toss of his head and replied, “I always do.”

Hashirama bit back a pang of worry and watched as Madara, too, disappeared into the gloom. His friends and allies were scattered now, all according to their plan. Hashirama remained where he was for a moment; his own troops, the Senju warriors he would be leading, were right behind him, their rough shapes visible as little more than silhouettes in the heavy fog.

His role in this battle was simple. He would lead his troops along the riverbank head-on into the Hagoromo, stopping the invading army from making its way any further east down the river. He was the anvil to Mito’s hammer: with her troops well familiar with the terrain, Mito would swoop in from the north and pin the enemy against the river, trapping the Hagoromo and preventing them from leveraging their greater numbers. Madara, their hidden blade, would cut off enemy soldiers attempting to outflank Mito’s battalion. The Uchiha were so recently arrived, there was a good chance the Hagoromo didn’t have a good idea of their strength – hopefully, Madara could use this to his advantage and take the enemy by surprise. But Hashirama knew very well how rarely battles went according to plan.

One last, deep breath… Hashirama took one last, pointless look at the fog concealing the opposing army, picked up his banner, and turned back in the direction of his troops. As he came into view of his soldiers, he held the banner aloft, confident and proud in the saddle. Now was not the time for him to doubt the plan he’d set into motion, or have second thoughts about their strategy; now, he had to convince his people to follow him without question.

“My friends!” Hashirama shouted, pitching his voice to carry. “Our enemy has demanded my surrender. Do I stand against him alone?”

His soldiers hollered their denial, words lost in the wave of sound. This was a familiar exchange to the Senju who had fought with Hashirama before. In these conditions, Hashirama knew that many of the warriors under his command wouldn’t be able to see or hear him – so best to keep things simple. His people would be tense and anxious from the waiting, just as he was; he needed to transmute that nervous energy into will to fight. Unexpectedly, Hashirama thought of the young Uchiha at Kamachi – Kagami, insisting that he could help with the battle, and Naori, standing firm against Madara – and then, strangely, he recalled the expression on a younger Madara’s face right before their planned duel to the death.

_No use getting emotional now_, Hashirama reminded himself. He took another deep breath and roared, “With my clan behind me, there’s nothing for me to fear!” He nudged his horse forwards and carefully handed off his banner to a waiting horseman. Ordinarily, he would use the banner to signal to his troops, but today the visibility was so poor that banners were all but useless. Luckily, according to the plan his army wouldn’t need to make any complicated maneuvers – just stand their ground next to the river. Hashirama drew his sword and held it aloft. “Senju! Will you stand with me?”

This time the answering cheer was accompanied by the _SHING_ of metal as the warriors drew their weapons. Hashirama spurred his horse into a trot, running along the front line of his army, holding his sword high and stoking the yells of the crowd. _I will protect you_, he promised silently, grinning recklessly at his clan as if he was looking forward to the battle, as if their victory was assured. _I won’t let this be in vain_.

Then, muffled through the fog, came a string of eerie notes. It was a jinkai, a conch shell trumpet fashioned by the Uzumaki: Mito’s signal to attack. Hashirama gave one last cry of “_With me, Senju!”_, and wheeled his horse to lead his troops ahead. He nudged his horse into a canter – no full charge this time, not with the mist so thick in front of him – and heard the rumbling of his army behind him as the Senju warriors began to advance. Then, he began to hear the battle cries of the enemy, drifting through the fog, and then, at last, the forms of the Hagoromo samurai resolved out of the mist.

Horsemen, riding ahead of the foot soldiers: they were decked out in finery announcing their names and lineages, all of which was lost to the mist that made them faceless wraiths in the dim light. One bore down on Hashirama, shouting a challenge, and Hashirama allowed his focus to shrink down to the opponent in front of him. The man aimed a spear at him; Hashirama didn’t slow, kept his sword at his side, and at the last moment swept his blade upwards to redirect the spear high. In the same motion, he slashed at the enemy samurai as his momentum carried them close, the spill of red from the man’s neck cutting clean through the gray fog. The samurai fell; Hashirama moved past him, lifted his head, and took stock. This wasn’t like fighting with Madara; there was no joy in this kind of fighting, no friendly respect for your opponent. This was purely survival, living moment to moment and winning at any cost.

Head up, look around; take in the state of the battlefield, figure out where to go; focus on the enemy and win _fast_ – every exchange of blows meant more chances to die – head up, look around. It was a familiar rhythm to Hashirama, and his experience made it easier, though not by much. As always, the chaos of the battle threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought to keep his awareness of the world around him. He couldn’t stay in the thick of the fighting for long – he needed to circle back, see how his forces were faring against the enemy, and determine how to adapt his strategy. Senju soldiers, catching sight of the symbol on the back of his saddle, rallied around him as he led them back to shore up holes in their defense.

Every moment on the battlefield seemed to stretch for an eternity – in his focus, Hashirama forgot the past, and held onto only a dim idea of the future – so his first hint that hours had passed came in a glint at the corner of his eye. It was the river, somewhere off to his left: visible for the first time all day. The fog was beginning to burn off. Hashirama took the opportunity to look around and properly get his bearings. His sword arm was aching, he realized; he was starting to get tired. Around him, Senju warriors were still fighting, but the enemy in front of them was hemmed in – now, Hashirama could see samurai bearing the red spiral of the Uzumaki in the thick of the battle, pressing the Hagoromo back towards the river. Taking advantage of the improved visibility, Hashirama guided his horse up a small hill, hoping to get a better sense of how his allies were faring. But even raised from the battlefield he could find no trace of Madara or his Uchiha warriors – the soldiers in the distance were still concealed, fuzzy and out of focus in the remaining mist.

What Hashirama saw instead made his breath catch in his throat. The Uzumaki were massed at Hashirama’s right, holding their own against the Hagaromo; but just beyond their ranks, emerging from behind another hill, Hashirama could just make out a group of spearmen on foot. Those were no Uchiha troops – they had to be Hagoromo, preparing to catch the Uzumaki from the side. If those soldiers made it through, they could shred Mito’s warriors and her carefully prepared plan. Hashirama had little time to react; he yelled to his warriors, “_With me, Senju!_”, and without waiting for a response, took off down the hill to intercept the enemy.

Hashirama crashed into the spearmen with enough speed to send the first ranks flying, and lashed out with his sword at the soldiers around him as furiously as he could manage. He was only buying time for his reinforcements to come and back him up, or for the Uzumaki to realize what was going on, but he needed to do as much damage as possible to slow these troops down. The Hagoromo soldiers, unfortunately, were well-trained: they surrounded Hashirama, using the reach of their spears to mitigate his advantage of height. Hashirama yanked a spear out of someone’s hand, killed two men; three; and then finally, a direct hit to the plated armour on his shoulder knocked him to the side, and he found himself falling. He rolled as he hit the ground, managing to keep hold of his sword, and came up with the blade in front of him to fend off the blows that were already raining down.

_Shit_, Hashirama thought. He’d managed to distract the Hagoromo, all right, and now he was surrounded on all sides by warriors in a frenzy to tear him apart. Where were his reinforcements?! He wasn’t going to be able to defend himself like this for much longer. Hashirama dodged a sword strike, grabbed the man in front of him by the arm, and dragged the soldier in close to stab him in the gut; he held the soldier in front of him as a shield and watched spears sink into the dead man’s body. He felt a blow hit his left shoulder blade hard enough to knock him to his knees, and a moment later, a stabbing pain told him that one of the spears had made it through his armour. Hashirama clenched his jaw – _I can’t die here!_ – and forced himself to twist around and bat aside the spear as it came down a second time. He slashed at his assailant’s knees and was rewarded as the soldier stumbled back. Then, as Hashirama struggled to rise to his feet, the air was split by a yell of rage, and the enemy warrior in front of him was suddenly gone, obliterated by –

The Gunbai, wielded by Madara, who was reigning his horse up so sharply that the animal reared; Hashirama flattened himself back to the ground to avoid the lashing hooves. Madara gave another wordless, furious cry, and swung the Gunbai in a deadly arc as his mount found its feet. Hashirama heard metal and bone crunch under the war fan, saw men fall around him – and in the split-second opening, Madara took his hand off the reigns and held it out to Hashirama.

_“Come on!”_ he roared.

Hashirama didn’t have to be told twice: he scrambled to his feet, grabbed the offered hand, and with Madara’s help managed to haul himself onto the horse’s back behind his friend. He held onto Madara’s armour with one hand and kept his sword clenched in his other, ready to fend off attacks; but now, he could see samurai bearing the Uchiha fan on their armour hacking their way into the crowd of spearmen, accompanied by Hashirama’s Senju troops – finally – streaming across the battlefield to cut off the advance of the Hagoromo. No time now to marvel at the sight of Senju and Uchiha fighting side by side – there was still a battle to win.

It wasn’t long before it became apparent that the tide of the battle was beginning to turn in favour of the allied clans. The Hagoromo were still holding their own next to the river, but the Senju, Uzumaki and Uchiha had them hemmed in and were slowly pressing them back. As the enemy began to retreat, Madara shouted a few final orders to his samurai and then turned his horse back, away from the battle.

“I thought you’d be going after Katsutoshi’s head!” Hashirama said in his ear.

“Leave him to Mito,” Madara replied. “It’s Iesada’s head I want.” They were heading back behind the battle lines, to where banners of the three armies stood together, marking a rendezvous point. As they neared, Hashirama could see that Tobirama was already there, issuing commands at incoming soldiers and directing the wounded to the medical tents.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama called out, and saw his brother look up with a look of relief that quickly gave way to confusion.

“Anija,” he said, as Madara reigned his horse to a halt in front of the flags. “What the hell happened to you?”

Hashirama sheathed his sword and then slid ungracefully off of the horse’s back. Stumbling over, he grabbed Tobirama in a crushing hug and exclaimed, “We did it!”

“Yes, Anija,” replied Tobirama, and then, in the same calm tone, “Did you know you’re bleeding?”

“Huh?” Hashirama released his brother, who held up his right hand to show that the palm was covered in blood. Hashirama suddenly recalled the spear that had struck him in the back; he’d completely forgotten about the injury in the grip of battle fever. “Oh, right.”

“What?” snapped Madara.

“Let me see,” said Tobirama, prodding at Hashirama’s shoulder to make him turn around. Hashirama turned, and winced – now that he’d been reminded of it, that stab wound _hurt_. Tobirama pulled at his armour to get a better look at the injury, sending a fresh shock of pain through his back.

“Ow!” he complained.

“Hang on,” Tobirama muttered. “It doesn’t look too deep, I think, but it’s still bleeding a lot. You should probably get to the medical tent before you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out! I feel fine!” Hashirama objected. He looked at Madara for support and saw that his friend, still mounted, was staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite parse – was that shock? Disgust? Anger, maybe? Concerned, Hashirama took a step towards him, reached out a hand, and said, “Madara? Are you alright?”

His words seemed to snap Madara out of a daze; he blinked, and replied, “Yes, I’m fine – I’m uninjured.” Then, abruptly, he said, “I have to go,” and trotted away without waiting for a reply.

“Did I say something?” Hashirama wondered aloud as he watched Madara beat a hasty retreat.

Tobirama shrugged. “Don’t look at me, Anija. Who knows what’s going on with him? Just come with me to get your wound looked at, alright?”

“Sure,” replied Hashirama, letting himself be towed along, then suddenly realizing what he’d agreed to. “Wait, the medical tent? I’ll be in there all day! I can treat it myself!”

“It’s on your back, idiot, how are you going to look at it?”

“You can help me! Those doctors aren’t going to listen when I tell them it’s fine! Tobiramaaaaa - !”

\---

It was nightfall by the time Hashirama finally managed to escape. He’d had his wound cleaned, examined, and bandaged, and had received a thorough scolding from the doctors. He hadn’t been able to escape early, either – he was friends with most of the battlefield doctors, after all, and some of them had even been his teachers, so they were all wise to his tricks. No amount of pleading, charming, or threatening would persuade them to let him leave and attend to his people before they were satisfied the bleeding had stopped. Desperate to make himself useful, Hashirama had spent the next several hours ‘helping’ inside the medical tent. Despite his medical training, he was quickly banned from offering any actual treatment, and instead just did his best to comfort his wounded soldiers – and assure those with fatal injuries that their sacrifice would not be forgotten.

A strange mood gripped Hashirama, one he knew the other survivors of the battle would share. They had won; they had survived, and that called for celebration – but it was joy tempered with grief for all the people they had lost. Hashirama was immeasurably relieved that his risky plan hadn’t yet run his clan to ruin, but he also felt the guilt of all the lost lives weighing on his conscience. Either way, he absolutely needed a drink.

It didn’t take him long to find one: he followed a flickering light through the rows of tents until he came upon a massive bonfire and found the celebrations already in full swing. As he stepped into the light of the fire, a murmur ran through the crowd around him; the people nearest him, people he didn’t recognize, got up to bow in his direction. Hashirama nodded back and waved a little awkwardly, wondering at this reaction - since when had these unfamiliar soldiers started to recognize him?

“Hashirama!” There was Mito, calling his name. With her face flushed nearly as red as her hair, and unruly strands falling out of her usual immaculate buns, she looked as relaxed and unguarded as Hashirama had ever seen.

“Mito!” he exclaimed, hurrying over as she stood to greet him. “You started the celebrations without me?”

Mito shoved a bottle of sake into his hands. “Here, quit your whining!” He took a grateful drink and passed the bottle back – he really shouldn’t be drinking, given his injury, but he reasoned a little alcohol wouldn’t hurt too much. Mito peered at him in concern. “I heard you were wounded. Are you all right?”

“Fine!” Hashirama assured her. “It was nothing serious.”

“You’re not just saying that to sound tough, are you?”

“Don’t I always sound tough?”

She let out an incredulous snort, prompting Hashirama to sigh with hurt and hang his head theatrically. Mito tapped him gently on one shoulder with her fist.

“Cheer up! Seems like you’re tough enough to win battles, at least, and that’s what counts in my view.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Hashirama, and held out his hand for the bottle. He took a swig when Mito passed it over, then handed it back; she took a drink as well, and for a moment, both of them were silent, just existing in the new companionship brought about by a battle shared.

“I’m grateful to you, you know,” Mito said suddenly.

Hashirama looked at her in surprise. “You are? What for?”

“The sheer number of troops that asshole had…well, you saw it. There’s no way my clan could have won that battle on our own. If not for you, I’d be staring down the point of my own wakizashi about now.”

A chill went down Hashirama’s spine. He knew, of course, that it was common for commanders on the losing side of a battle to kill themselves honourably rather than surrender to the enemy, but he didn’t like to think of Mito in that position. He didn’t like her _thanking_ him for giving her an alternative. “Hey,” he said, “You know I made this alliance for the benefit of _my_ clan, too.”

“Obviously, I know that. But I’m grateful to you for – well, for being as good as your word, I guess. This battle – it was life or death for the Uzumaki, but you Senju could have walked away. Honestly, I didn’t actually expect you to put your clan or your life on the line for this. But you did – and you even trusted me enough to take the lead.” Mito tipped her bottle to him in a kind of salute. “So I guess I owe you one.”

Fighting back the emotion that had suddenly swelled in his throat, Hashirama gave up trying to come up with an eloquent response and just held out his hand to her. “Mito. No debts between friends, alright?”

She looked from his outstretched hand to his face and back to the hand again. Her face broke into a grin, and she clasped his hand to give it a firm shake. “I’ll take that deal, Hashirama.”

Squeezing Mito’s hand, Hashirama could feel his eyes starting to well up, and decided he’d better change the topic to something a little lighter before he found himself full-on bawling. “While we’re here,” he said, “Why don’t you just go ahead and ask for my blessing?”

Now it was her turn to blink at him in confusion. “Huh? For what?”

“To marry Tōka, of course!”

Mito snatched her hand away, her face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Hey! She’s a part of _my_ clan now, if you’ll recall. I wouldn’t have to ask _you_ for – wait, hang on, who said anything about us getting _married_?!”

Hashirama threw his head back and laughed. After all the fear and worry of the battle that morning, it felt like an incredible relief to be able to relax enough to tease a friend. “Oh, sorry, are you two not at that point yet?”

“We’re not at _any_ point yet,” Mito mumbled into her bottle.

“_What?_” cried Hashirama.

“Shh!! She’s right over there!”

He followed Mito’s frantic look over his shoulder and saw Tōka just a few paces away. She must have had a few cups of sake already; instead of her usual knife tricks, she was attempting to balance an entire katana – sheathed, thankfully – on one finger, to the delight of a laughing Naori. Clearly being a terrible influence on the youth, as usual. Hashirama turned back to look at Mito again. “You’re telling me neither of you have made a move yet? What’s taking so long?”

She glowered at him in response. “Like you’re one to talk!”

“_That’s_ a different story,” he shot back, refusing to take her bait. “I know for a fact Tōka would jump at the chance to be with you, if you asked.”

“Well,” said Mito, pausing to take another drink from the bottle, “Now that we’ve actually managed to survive that battle, maybe I’ll get my chance to ask.”

Naori’s cheer from behind him made Hashirama turn around again in time to see his cousin attempt to flip her katana in the air, flub the catch, and smack herself in the head with the sheathed blade. Behind him, he heard Mito sigh. He looked back to find that she’d leaned close to him to say in a conspiratory whisper, “I like her so much, Hashirama.”

Grinning, Hashirama said, “No time like the present, then.”

“What – ”

“Hey, Tōka!” Hashirama bellowed. Tōka, rubbing her head, looked up to see him waving at her and said something to Naori, who bowed and headed off in a different direction; Tōka tucked her katana back into the belt of her kimono and made her way over to Hashirama.

In a very small voice, Mito said, “Oh no.”

Hashirama tried to school his face into a more neutral expression, so as not to give the game away, only to see his expression almost mirrored on Tōka’s face – and wasn’t that a familiar look? She looked like she knew something he didn’t, and she couldn’t wait for him to find out.

“Hashirama,” Tōka said, and then, very casually: “Have you seen your brother around?”

“Huh? No, is he here?” Tobirama wasn’t really one for parties, so Hashirama hadn’t expected to see him.

“Check it out,” said Tōka, and pointed. A bit beyond the flickering light of the fire, Hashirama could just make out his brother’s distinctive shock of white hair – he was slumped, fast asleep, against the trunk of a tree.

“You’re kidding,” said Hashirama, at the same time Mito let out a surprised laugh. Tobirama passed out in the midst of a raucous party; now there was an unusual sight. “Is he drunk?” he asked, suddenly worried – it wasn’t at all like Tobirama to drink himself unconscious.

“I don’t think so,” replied Tōka. “I’m pretty sure he had only a cup or two. He’s just tired out.”

His worry dispelled, Hashirama cooed, “Aww, look at him. Poor little brother.” As Mito and Tōka both giggled at Tobirama’s expense, Hashirama raised a hand in farewell. “I’d better go check on him. See you later!” He accompanied this with what he thought was a fairly subtle wink at Mito, who rewarded him with a glare that clearly meant, _Why would you do that right in front of her?!_

He sauntered over to Tobirama’s tree and took a moment to look down at his sleeping brother, trying to decide how badly to tease him when he woke up. The younger Senju had taken off his happuri, but he still wore smudged paint on his cheeks and chin – he must have forgotten to wipe it off. He looked younger, sleeping like this, his face relaxed instead of frowning with worry or disapproval. He carried a heavy burden of responsibility, Hashirama knew; it was nice to see him set that responsibility down for a moment, even just to sleep. Hashirama felt a rush of fondness for his little brother. Maybe, just this once, he’d take pity and show Tobirama some mercy.

Hashirama bent down to shake him by the shoulder and sang, “Tobiramaaaaaa!”

“Whuzzit – huh?” Tobirama cracked open an eye to stare blearily up at him. “Oh.” He shut the eye again. “Go away.”

Hashirama laughed. “Tired out, huh?”

“Not my fault,” mumbled Tobirama, opening his eyes again just enough to glare. “Had to do all _your_ work.”

“Aww, such a thoughtful little brother you are!”

“Ugh,” said Tobirama, and threw an arm over his face.

Hashirama tried to tug the arm free and was met with sleepy resistance. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let’s get you back to your tent so you can go to sleep properly, and give all these defenseless people a break from your snoring.”

Tobirama groaned but allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Was I actually snoring?”

“Nah, but you were probably about to.” Hashirama slung his brother’s arm over his shoulder to more easily pull him along.

“This feels very backwards,” said Tobirama, stumbling along beside Hashirama into the empty rows of tents.

“Tell me about it," Hashirama agreed. He’d lost count of the number of times Tobirama had dragged him home from parties or bars. His memories of these events were a little fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he usually made the task much harder than Tobirama was currently making it for him. “How much sake did you have, anyways?”

“Uh…three?”

Hashirama snickered. “Three cups? You’re awfully heavy for such a lightweight.”

“Oh, shut up, Anija,” Tobirama groused.

Luckily for Tobirama, his tent wasn’t far from the bonfire, and they reached it before he had to endure any more teasing. When they arrived, Hashirama watched his brother push aside the cloth wall and immediately plant himself facedown on his sleeping mat.

“Night, Tobirama,” Hashirama laughed.

“Mrrmph,” Tobirama replied.

Still laughing, Hashirama headed back in the direction of the bonfire, but then paused mid-stride as a thought struck him: wasn’t there someone missing?

The more he thought about it, the more he was sure – though he’d only been at the party for a short time, he would have seen Madara if he had been there. The man was hardly subtle; Hashirama would have noticed him, had perhaps unconsciously been looking for him. The big grouch was probably hiding in his tent, being antisocial and sulky instead of enjoying a nice victory celebration with everyone else. The more he thought about it, the more Hashirama was convinced that he didn’t really want to return to the party unless he could drag Madara back with him. Hashirama turned on his heel, prepared to do just that, and strode off in the direction of Madara’s tent.

His purposeful walk got a bit derailed – in this battlefield camp, the Senju, Uchiha and Uzumaki armies had mixed and run into each other, resulting in a layout that was even more confusing at night than it was during the day. Long sheets of cloth divided the different areas of the camp, intended to slow down and disorient attacking soldiers; unfortunately, the trick was working on Hashirama, too. Maybe the sake was partially responsible, but for whatever reason, Hashirama realized he’d gotten a bit turned around. Trying to reorient himself, Hashirama turned down a corridor created by the cloth, and in the dim light suddenly spotted a tall figure at the end of the corridor. It was Tōka, he realized, and took a step forwards, about to call out her name – and then saw that she had someone in her arms, up against the flimsy cloth. Someone with very bright red hair.

_Oops_, thought Hashirama, trying his best to stifle a giggle as he beat a hasty retreat. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening there, but he was now very much looking forward to teasing the two of them about it in the morning.

Despite taking a few more wrong turns, Hashirama managed to find Madara’s tent without further incident. Sure enough, he could see the tent was lit from inside by a lamp – he’d guessed right. Hashirama called Madara’s name to announce himself and, without waiting for an answer, threw back the fabric at the front of the tent.

His friend was seated at a low table, writing on a sheet of paper. Without looking up from his work, Madara said, “It’s you. Wonderful.”

“What are you writing?” asked Hashirama, ducking into the tent.

“Orders.”

“Orders? You’re working already? Come on, Madara, we just won a battle! Why don’t you come relax for a bit with me?”

Madara’s pen made an angry slash across his paper. “I’m not going anywhere,” he bit out, “with _you_.”

This unexpected hostility doused Hashirama's good mood like a shock of cold water. “You won’t?” he said, taken aback – he’d expected a refusal, maybe, but not this barely-suppressed fury. Slowly, he said, “Are you…angry with me?”

“A genius observation.”

Mystified, Hashirama asked, “What did I do to make you angry?”

With precise, methodical movements, Madara set down his pen, capped his ink bottle, and got to his feet. “I always thought you were an idealist, Hashirama, but I never took you for an idiot.” Finally, he met Hashirama’s questioning look; the anger in his dark eyes, set in a stony face, nearly made Hashirama flinch. “How disappointing to be proved wrong.”

“Madara, please. Won’t you just tell me what this is about?”

“Fine, if I have to spell it out: I’m talking about the ridiculous, reckless stunt you pulled today. Was a spear in the back not enough of a lesson for you? Or should I have let you take a few more?”

“Oh,” said Hashirama. That made some amount of sense – he’d been expecting a scolding about his near miss, in fact, but he’d expected Tobirama to be the one delivering the lecture. Madara, though, was hardly a cautious warrior himself; both he and Hashirama had taken much more serious risks in their battles against one another. What reason did he have to be so upset?

“Oh?” mimicked Madara, tilting his head mockingly to the side. “What does the great strategist Senju Hashirama have to say for himself?”

“It was a necessary gamble, Madara. I had to stop those spearmen before they outflanked us, or we risked losing the battle. My warriors were a little slower than they should have been – of course, I’m grateful to you for helping me,” he added hurriedly.

“Hashirama, that was the most pointless gamble you’ve ever made,” Madara replied. Drawing out his words as if speaking to a child, he said, “You ran off before your warriors could even see where you were going. There was a battlefield for them to cross before they could reach you, and they were _already in battle_ when you asked them to follow you. There was _no chance_ they could have made it in time.” He took a step forwards, bringing himself into Hashirama’s space. “You say we risked losing the battle? You nearly cost us the war.”

Hashirama held up a hand in protest. “Alright, it was poorly calculated, but what do you mean I nearly cost us the war? The only life I risked was my own.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Madara spat. “If you had been killed, that would have been the end of this war!”

“Oh, I see your concern,” Hashirama said placatingly, “But don’t worry. If I’m killed, Tobirama will still honour the alliance between our clans.”

Madara seized his hair with both hands in frustration. “Hashirama! How blind can you be? Don’t you realize you’re the only thing holding this alliance together?”

“That’s not true! Everyone can see this agreement is mutually beneficial.”

“Forget ‘mutually beneficial’ – you’re the one they _trust_.” Madara’s voice was rising in anger. “It’s _you_ who holds the treaty with the Uzumaki; _you _who proposed it and _you _who gave up your cousin as insurance. And as for the Uchiha? You think they suddenly trust _me_ again, just because I freed Kamachi?” He gave a hoarse, humourless laugh. “No, Hashirama, they’re not stupid; they know it’s _you_ they have to thank for that. It’s you they want to follow, not me!” He was nearly shouting as he said, “Don’t you get it, Hashirama? Don’t you see you’re all I have left?”

Whatever Hashirama had been about to say next evaporated. Madara, suddenly frozen in front of him, looked as surprised as he was; in that moment of shocked silence, Hashirama finally understood why Madara was so angry with him. He’d been trying so hard to gain Madara’s trust, had wanted so desperately to win back his friendship – but until now, he’d never really been sure that Madara actually _cared _for him. With that realization, in that moment out of time, Hashirama imagined he could lean forward, cross the little space that separated them, and press his lips to Madara’s…

Then, Madara tilted his head, letting his unruly curtain of hair hide his expression. “I mean,” he said, “You’re the only chance my _clan_ has left.”

With that, Hashirama understood something else: Madara couldn’t let himself care for Hashirama. Just a few short months ago Madara had lost everything – rejected by his clan, mourning the brother who had meant so much to him – and now, letting Hashirama get close would make him vulnerable again. Madara would never want him so long as he ran the risk of losing him – and, conveniently, Hashirama had just demonstrated how easily he could be lost.

Hashirama’s little fantasy clearly wasn’t the kind of comfort his friend needed right now. Instead, Hashirama acted on his next instinct: he seized one of Madara’s hands in both of his and pressed it to his chest. Startled, Madara looked up at him; Hashirama locked eyes with him and said:

“Madara. You’re right – I realize now the risk I took wasn’t worth it. It was dangerous and stupid, and I promise you I won’t make the same mistake again. I’m really, truly sorry.”

Whatever Madara had expected, clearly an apology wasn’t it; for a moment he was speechless, his expression more open and vulnerable than Hashirama had seen in years. There was something else Hashirama desperately wanted to say to him, and he knew that if he did, he would shatter this rare moment – but he also knew he might never get another opportunity. Hashirama swallowed hard and said, “Madara, I want you to know that what happened to Izuna wasn’t your fault.”

Immediately Madara’s face took on its usual stony mask, anger behind his eyes rising to conceal both sorrow and fear. He tried to take a step back, but Hashirama followed, still clutching Madara’s hand to his chest. “You know nothing about that,” he bit out.

“You’re wrong; I know how you feel. I’ve lost brothers too, remember?”

“Hah! You think you understand how I feel?” Madara gave him a sharp shove in the chest, back on the offensive; Hashirama stood his ground. “You can’t understand – you may have buried siblings before, but you still have someone left! You still have Tobirama!” He was ranting again, now, drawing on that familiar anger he kept stoked to fight his grief. “You should pray you never understand what I feel!

“Tell me, then,” Hashirama murmured.

“Do you truly want to know, Hashirama? Fine! I’ll tell you!

“Every single day, just for a moment – when I wake up, or in the middle of a fight, or when I’m talking to you – I forget he’s gone. I’ll think to myself, ‘I should tell Izuna’, and I’ll imagine his reaction or worry about him – and then I’ll remember that I have nobody to worry over, and I’ll mourn him from the beginning all over again. And do you know what the worst part is, Hashirama?” Madara’s voice broke. “I don’t want it to stop! I don’t want it to stop because if someday I don’t think of him, I will have lost him for good. I’ll finally have failed him,” he gasped, “I’ll have failed him for the last time…”

As his voice trailed off, Hashirama tugged on the hand he was still gripping; Madara, to his surprise, stumbled forwards and let himself be pulled into an embrace. Hashirama freed one hand to curl and arm around his friend’s shoulders, their still-joined hands now crushed between them, and Madara brought his other hand up to clutch his face, half-hidden in Hashirama’s shoulder. Hashirama held him tightly and felt him shake with sobs that barely made any sound. Madara’s mane of hair was brushing against Hashirama’s face; he closed his eyes and held his friend a little tighter, hoping touch might offer some comfort where words failed.

He had no idea how long they stood like that, but eventually, Madara’s shaky breaths began to even out, and he finally pulled back. Hashirama let him go reluctantly and watched him scrub his face with his sleeve, and grappled with what to say. _You never failed your brother_, was what he wanted to tell him – but he knew Madara wouldn’t hear that. Finally, he settled on: “I know you’ll never forget Izuna.” Tentatively, he added, “But maybe, someday, you could tell me about him? I’d like to remember him, too.”

Madara actually came up with something resembling a laugh. “He really didn’t like you – did you know that? He always thought your treaty idea was suspect.”

“I can understand that, I guess,” replied Hashirama with a smile.

The wry mirth on Madara’s face faded back into sorrow as he said, “I can’t talk about him, Hashirama. Not yet.”

“That’s alright. It’s just – I wish – well. I’m really sorry about today.”

Madara only shook his head tiredly. “Just – don’t try that again,” he said, sounding defeated.

“I won’t. I promise.”

The two of them stood for a moment, looking at each other, until finally Madara said, “I’m exhausted, Hashirama. I think I’ll just go to sleep.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow morning, then.” Hashirama should have turned to leave, but he paused, for some reason held still by the moment.

There was a strand of hair falling in front of Madara’s face. Both of them watched as Hashirama’s hand rose slowly, as if of its own volition, and reach out to gently tuck the strand of hair behind Madara’s ear.

“Goodnight, Madara,” Hashirama whispered, and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I have completed, so for the first time since I started posting, I don't have a new chapter banked & ready to go. As a result these last few chapters might update a little slower than usual, but I'll do my best to get them out asap. Getting close to the end!


	9. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it. This fic earns its M rating in this chapter, so here's my warning for mild sexual content. If you know me in real life and I made the ill-advised decision to tell you about this fic - if you keep reading, that's on you. Have fun!

The river was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Though the sun had risen, the camp was slow to wake up, no doubt sleeping off both the exhaustion of battle and the aftermath of yesterday’s celebration. Ordinarily, Hashirama would be as hungover as anyone else, but after his encounter with Madara last night, he hadn’t felt much like rejoining the party. Instead, he’d returned to his tent for a night of fitful sleep; an optimistic but ultimately hopeless effort. In addition to the dull but constant throbbing of the stab wound in his back, he had too many thoughts running through his head, moments from the battle he was reliving – and, of course, there were Madara’s words, echoing endlessly in the silence.

So, as the sun rose, Hashirama gave up on sleeping to sit by the river in an attempt to calm his mind. Listening to the rush of the water against the rocks, watching the early rays of sun glitter in the spray – it was helping more than he’d expected. Despite all the carnage yesterday, the river here looked completely unchanged. Any evidence of the battle must have already been swept away by the water, Hashirama reasoned; it was nice to think that here was something unaffected by his decisions, that carried on regardless of human fear or grief. In a strange way, it made Hashirama feel grounded.

His musings were interrupted by a voice from behind him. “I thought I might find you out here,” said Tobirama, picking his way over the rocks at the river’s edge.

Hashirama turned to make a face at him. “Are we meeting already?”

“No, not yet. I haven’t seen Mito this morning – she must still be sleeping.”

“Heh,” said Hashirama, thinking of what he’d accidentally witnessed yesterday. At his brother’s questioning look he hurried to say, “I’m surprised to see you awake, Tobirama! I thought you’d be sleeping off those three cups of sake until noon at least.”

Tobirama rolled his eyes. “You wore that joke out last night, Anija.”

“Well, I have to make the most of the opportunity,” Hashirama pointed out. “Were you looking for me for something?”

“Actually, I just wanted to talk with you.”

“Oh,” said Hashirama, pleasantly surprised. “In that case, come sit with me.”

Tobirama did as he suggested, perching on a rock next to Hashirama. The brothers sat in silence for a few moments, watching the river rush by and listening to the sound of the water, until finally Tobirama said, “I have a question for you.”

Hashirama nodded to show he was listening. Tobirama turned to face him, and said, “Did Madara save your life yesterday? I heard what happened from Kagami, and I’d like to confirm his account was correct.”

“Kagami?” asked Hashirama, momentarily distracted from the main point of the question. “Tobirama, you didn’t let a teenager go into battle, did you?”

“Of course not, Anija.” Tobirama waved a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Kagami heard the story from Naori, who _was_ there, and relayed it to me. He’s been carrying messages for Hikaku, so he’s actually helped me quite a bit. He’s very capable – has the makings of an excellent samurai. I’m thinking of taking him on as an apprentice.”

“Wha – _you?_ With an Uchiha apprentice?”

“Hmph. I’m willing to work with the Uchiha, Anija – I’m just more pragmatic than you are. Now,” Tobirama jabbed an accusatory finger at him, “stop avoiding the question. Did Madara really save your life, or was the story I heard exaggerated?”

Hashirama sighed. He probably deserved the scolding he was about to receive; might as well admit his wrongdoing and get it over with as quickly as possible. “It’s true. I rushed in without waiting for backup; Madara saw I was in trouble and rode in to help me. If not for him, I probably would have been killed.” Hashirama hurried to add: “I realize now that I should’ve have been so reckless; I should have made sure my people were with me before – ”

“Wait, Anija,” Tobirama said, holding up a hand to stop Hashirama’s pre-emptive apology. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to yell at you. Now that I know for sure what happened, I…have something I want to say to you.”

“Of course,” Hashirama said. This didn’t seem to be going the way he’d expected.

Whatever it was Tobirama wanted to say, it didn’t seem easy for him. He looked back out over the river, frowning at the water, and took a couple breaths before finally stating, matter-of-factly: “Did you know that after the Hyuga clan was attacked, while you were a hostage there, a messenger came to tell us you’d died?”

Hashirama felt his jaw go slack. He knew his family had probably assumed the worst, but he’d never heard that news of his death had actually been delivered to them. “No, I didn’t. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” And why, after all these years, was he hearing about it now?

“Our father didn’t think it was important, and honestly, I just didn’t want to think about it.” Tobirama fiddled with his hands as he spoke, looking down at them instead of at Hashirama. “The messenger even had some of your clothes and things to prove it. Father burned them, since we didn’t have a body, but he obviously cancelled the commission for the gravestone when you showed up a couple weeks later.”

An incredulous laugh escaped Hashirama. “I can’t believe I never knew about this.”

Tobirama shrugged. “Like I said, it wasn’t something anyone really wanted to dwell on. But I can tell you that you were dead for exactly fifteen days before you arrived back home. Unfortunately, I remember them…really well.”

“Oh, Tobirama…”

“I was fourteen. I thought I was all alone in the world. And then, you just…came back.” Tobirama flattened his hands on the rock at his sides and looked over at his brother. “You were kind of annoying, you know. You’d always say something stupid to our father, and then I’d have to defend you, and then you’d go and show me up on the training ground so he liked you better anyways. Also, you always used to mess up my hair.” He paused, shook his head as though chagrined, and said simply, “I was so ridiculously grateful to have you back.”

Tears were beginning to well up in Hashirama’s eyes. He wanted to reassure his brother that he wasn’t going anywhere; but Tobirama wasn’t finished.

“When I asked how you escaped the Hyuga compound, you told me that it was all thanks to your friend. I was grateful to this unknown boy for saving your life, but I also realized I probably couldn’t rely on some stranger to help you out of danger every time, and I couldn’t chance losing you again. So, I promised myself that in the future, I would always protect you. But you – ” Tobirama waved a hand in frustration. “You have made that promise _so_ hard to keep.”

“Sorry,” Hashirama choked out.

“No – I understand why you’re like that. You always feel like you have to protect everyone, and I don’t blame you for trying. But what I never understood is why you were willing to risk your life to protect that ‘friend’ of yours from the Uchiha, when it was so clear to me he wasn’t your friend any longer. Whatever debt you felt you owed him from when you were kids – _surely_ you paid that off when you spared his life. You almost lost your position as leader over that treaty, and _then_ you had to go and start a war with the Hagoromo…I didn’t get it.” Tobirama shook his head. “I’m still not sure what you see in him, honestly. But…” he gave a heavy sigh. “If he really saved your life yesterday, then – ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this – I guess I’m glad to have him around.”

“Tobirama – !” Hashirama exclaimed in astonishment, but once again Tobirama held up a hand to silence him.

“My point, Hashirama, is that protecting you has become too big of a job for me to handle on my own. I hate to admit this, but if Madara can really be trusted to watch your back, I’ll take what help I can get. So, please, _please_, Anija, if you can’t stop trying to protect everyone…at least let one of us protect you.”

The tears in Hashirama’s eyes finally spilled over; he didn’t bother to dash them away, and instead watched the image of his little brother grow more and more blurry. It had always been his job, as the older sibling, to protect Tobirama – after losing their younger siblings, he had considered it his most important duty. He had always been ready to give his life for Tobirama. He had never thought it might be selfish of him to do so.

Hashirama leaned to the side so he could sling an arm around his brother’s shoulders and pull him into a one-armed hug. “Thank you, Tobirama,” he said. “I know how hard you’ve been trying.” Tobirama huffed out an exasperated breath but leaned into the hug, just a little. Hashirama squeezed him tighter and said, “You can share the task a little now, right? It’s not just Madara – there’s Mito, and of course there’s always been Tōka. I promise I’ll let you protect me. And, uh, tell me when I’m being an idiot, obviously.”

“Oh, you have no say in that. I’ll tell you regardless,” grumbled Tobirama.

Hashirama released him so he could look his brother in the eye again. “Thank you,” he said again, “I know it isn’t easy for you to trust Madara.”

Tobirama held up a finger to correct him. “_Tolerate_, Anija. I’ll _tolerate_ him. And I’d like to state for posterity that I still wish you’d chosen just about anybody else.” He stuck his bottom lip out in a pout that very much reminded Hashirama of his younger self. “But it’s never any use trying to change your mind, so I guess I’ll have to work with what I’m given.”

“Very practical of you, as always,” Hashirama laughed, wiping his eyes with the heel of hand. “Honestly, I’m still pretty shocked you’re willing to do that much!”

“I know,” said Tobirama, shaking his head, “I’m supposed to be the sane one.”

Hashirama clapped his hands together and bowed from the waist, dipping his head as low as he could. “I gratefully acknowledge your sacrifice!”

His brother responded by smacking him on the top of the head. “If you’re done being dramatic, can we go get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Sure,” replied Hashirama, rubbing his head. Thinking about breakfast reminded him of the responsibilities waiting for him back at camp, the losses he was going to have to assess and the strategies that needed to be made. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

\---

Madara swept into the command tent with his head held high, hair tied back, right hand resting on the swords at his waist. His demeanor betrayed no exhaustion from the previous day, only pride at a battle won – and, when he saw Hashirama, his lips actually quirked up in a small, private smile that made Hashirama’s breath catch.

“Hashirama? Did you hear me?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry, Mito.” _Focus_, Hashirama chided himself. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to introduce Uchiha Hikaku, general of the Uchiha.” He’d only barely noticed, but Hikaku and Naori had both entered behind Madara; Hikaku bowed formally to Mito, who nodded in reply.

“Welcome, Hikaku-san,” she said. Although Hashirama had seen her smothering a few yawns, Mito seemed to be in good spirits this morning; from the looks she and Tōka kept sneaking at each other, he had a pretty good guess as to why. Mito, as always, was keeping herself composed, but Tōka looked as obviously smitten as Hashirama had ever seen. He was itching to tease the both of them about it – but first, there was business to be taken care of.

“If everyone’s ready, let’s begin,” he said. Madara and his entourage took their seats to his right. Hashirama waited until he had everyone’s attention, and then said, without preamble, “It’s time for the final stage of this war.”

“We march on Iesada,” said Madara immediately.

“I still agree that’s our best course of action,” Mito replied. “But the question is: when?”

Madara answered, “Our best opportunity is right now. We’ve just defeated his army – we have to strike before he has the chance to gather new troops.”

“Do we even have the strength to take him on? We may have won the battle, but the Uzumaki clan suffered heavy losses.”

Hashirama broke in. “It would help to know the kind of odds we’re up against. Do the Hagoromo have troops in Senju and Uchiha lands?”

“Last I’ve heard, there are still Hagoromo trying to conquer our territory, but not very many,” Tobirama said. “Apparently they didn’t think much of us.”

“What about the Uchiha?” asked Hashirama.

Everyone looked at Hikaku, who said, “When I left, no samurai had appeared to recapture Kamachi, Hashirama-sama. I haven’t received any messages about battles in Uchiha lands, either.”

Tōka said, “Then our plan to split the Hagoromo armies was, at best, a partial success.” She shot a glance at Hashirama. “What did Iesada do with the soldiers he was supposed to send out? Did we fight them yesterday, or are they still waiting for us?”

Tobirama sighed. “I think we have to assume they’re still with Iesada at his castle. But, unfortunately, my spies haven’t been able to give me a consistent account.”

“So we’re essentially going in blind,” Mito said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Madara insisted. “We’ll just plan to beat a superior force, again.”

“But this time they’ll have the advantage of the castle,” Tōka pointed out.

“About that,” ventured Naori, “What do we know about the castle?”

Tobirama shuffled through a small pile of reports and extracted a sheet of paper. “Tsuki-jō,” he announced, laying the report in front of him. “Named for the celestial princess from whom the Hagoromo are supposedly descended. It’s built on a plane, not a mountain, so of course it’s protected by a mote. The foundations are all stone, so it won’t burn down. The castle itself is large enough to house over a thousand samurai, not counting the outlying buildings.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, considering this. Finally, Hashirama said, “Even if we have the cannons of the Uchiha, we should find a way to draw Iesada out of his castle. We don’t have the resources for a protracted siege.”

Madara shook his head. “There’s no way he’ll come out to face us himself – he’s too much of a coward.”

“What about his troops?” Hashirama pressed. “You’ve fought with him; you know his strategies. Can we make him send soldiers out to meet us?”

While Madara considered this, Hikaku and Naori exchanged looks. “If the Hagoromo have other allies, Iesada will probably send them out to meet us first,” Hikaku offered.

“That’s good,” said Hashirama, “We might be able to negotiate with them. What else?”

“Hikaku is right: Iesada will do all he can to shield himself from harm,” Madara said, frowning as he thought. “He’s paranoid, and will suspect a trick. However, he’s confident in the power of his armies, and assumes he can intimidate his enemies into submission.”

“Wonderful,” Tobirama muttered, in his driest tone. “So is he paranoid enough to keep his armies with him, or confident enough to send them out?”

Mito said, “Should we try to get him to underestimate us?”

“Madara said he’d suspect a trick,” Tōka pointed out.

“Then let’s do the opposite,” said Hashirama, an idea beginning to occur to him. As everyone turned to look at him, he continued, thinking out loud: “If we want Iesada to send his armies out, we should make him fear a siege. We won’t try to hide the cannons – we’ll display them openly, to show we’re ready to break down his stronghold. Plus, we already have something else we know he’s afraid of.” He turned towards Madara, who was watching him curiously. “You.”

“Madara? How do you know?” demanded Mito.

Hashirama turned to her to explain, “Iesada wouldn’t leave his castle to meet with me because he knew Madara was hunting him.”

Mito nodded; from the look on her face, Hashirama could tell she’d caught on to the idea. “Alright, then. Madara, why don’t you write our friend a personal declaration of war? A lovely little note swearing you’ll never stop until you get your revenge, or something of the sort. And we’ll throw in the heads of the generals we collected yesterday.”

Inwardly, Hashirama winced; he didn’t enjoy using those kinds of tactics, but he had to admit such a grisly message would probably be effective. Madara, on the other hand, leaned forward with his eyes glittering. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and grinned suddenly, showing his teeth. Considering what he was smiling at, and the slightly crazed look in his eye, Hashirama should really not have found that look attractive. His breath hitched again, regardless. _Shit._

Tōka interjected: “If we’re making that kind of threat, we’ll need to move fast. How soon can we be ready?”

“We’ll need time for our wounded to recover,” Tobirama replied. “And let’s not forget, that includes Hashirama.”

“I’m perfectly fit to ride,” Hashirama objected hastily. “Even if we move quickly, it’ll take at least three weeks for our armies to make it to Tsuki-jō. By then, I’ll be completely healed.”

“So you’re out of any fights we encounter before the actual siege,” Mito told him. To Hashirama’s bafflement, everyone except Hikaku made noises of agreement – even Naori nodded her head gravely. What were they all so concerned for? It wasn’t like his wound was _serious. _Mito continued, “I suggest that anyone with more severe injuries return to Uzushio. For those fit to march, we’ll move out in two days.”

Madara held out a hand and said, “Your map, please, Mito. We need to decide on a rendezvous point to meet up with the rest of my clan.”

It took several hours for the group of them to eke out the beginnings of a plan – their actual strategy for taking Tsuki-jō was still just a vague idea, but at least each of them left with an understanding of what needed to be done over the next few days. When the meeting was over, Madara swept out of the tent as purposefully as he’d arrived, making Hashirama scramble after him.

“Madara!”

Hashirama watched him freeze at the sound of his name. His shoulders had gone stiff, but when he turned, his face was carefully composed.

“Yes, Hashirama?”

It had been a long meeting, and Hashirama felt exhausted. Despite the high stakes resting on their decisions, his distracted thoughts kept wandering towards Madara – he longed to talk with him, but now that he finally had the chance, what exactly did he want to hear? That he was ready to face their final battle? That he was as scared as Hashirama was?

“How about a round of sparring?” He blurted.

Madara folded his arms and leveled him with a look of contempt. “I don’t think so.”

The rejection caught Hashirama somewhere under his sternum; he tried his best to keep the hurt that flooded his body from showing on his face. “Why not?” he asked, sounding pleading to his own ears.

“‘You should never, ever train with an injury’ – or so I believe you told me. Don’t you follow your own advice, Hashirama?”

“Oh,” Hashirama breathed in relief. “Of course I don’t. Who does?”

His friend tilted his head, acknowledging this point. “Well, it doesn’t matter; I’m enforcing it for you. No sparring until your wound is healed.” He glared implacably back at Hashirama’s pleading expression until finally Hashirama sighed and gave up.

“Walk with me, then?” he tried. “I’m strong enough to do that much, at least.”

This time, Madara at least looked regretful as he said, “I’m sorry, Hashirama, but I have orders to give out. You should probably meet with your subordinates as well.”

“…Yes, of course. You’re right.” He was right, of course; knowing this did nothing to diminish the dull ache in Hashirama’s chest. But then – Madara gave him a sad smile, his expression going soft for just a moment, and the embers of hope in Hashirama’s heart flared to life again.

“I’ll see you later, Hashirama,” he said, and in a moment he was gone, leaving Hashirama standing alone in front of the command tent.

Hashirama looked around, making sure he really was alone, before burying his face in his hands with a quiet groan. He _needed_ to get a grip on himself.

\---

The wrought iron of the cannon was warm under Hashirama’s hand, almost like a living thing.

“I’ve never seen one of these up close before,” he commented. Madara, standing beside him, raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

“Your clan really never uses them?”

“You know what the terrain is like in our territory – it’s not exactly easy to drag these things through a forest. Not many invading clans have tried it, either.” Talking with Madara these days made Hashirama feel as though he was breathing from the top of his lungs. Even something as mundane as this, discussing the fine points of arms transport, had him feeling that nervous anticipation; although what exactly he was anticipating, Hashirama had no idea.

“True – that’s why we don’t keep cannons at Kamachi. It’s too rocky and steep.” Madara shrugged. “They’re useful when you want to go on the offensive, though.”

The weapon was slightly longer than Hashirama was tall, mounted on wheels so that it could be dragged into position and swiveled to aim. “I seem to remember your soldiers holding cannons in their hands and firing at us, but this is much too large to lift. Do you have smaller cannons as well?”

“That’s right,” Madara confirmed. “We have ten of the smaller kind – those can be held by a single warrior,” Madara brought up his hands as if holding a cannon at chest height, “But you have to rest the muzzle on someone’s shoulder to properly aim. Now, we only have three of these large ones, and they’re harder to move, but they pack a much bigger punch. We call them kunikuzushi – country destroyers,” he added with a note of pride.

“Can they really break down a stone fortress?”

“Hmm. Despite the name, three kunikuzushi probably won’t reduce Tsuki-jō to rubble. But if you’ve never been in a siege where cannons were used, you wouldn’t guess their real strength.” Madara laid a gloved hand on the iron muzzle of the cannon in a gesture that was almost a caress. “Imagine: you’re nice and safe inside your stone walls; save the occasional arrow, you’re practically invincible. Now imagine, every so often – and you have no way of predicting when or where – somewhere inside your castle, an iron ball flies out of the sky and smashes through one of your rooms. Maybe most of them don’t even hurt anyone. But you know that sooner or later, near misses will turn into deaths, and the cannons don’t distinguish by rank. Those stone walls aren’t feeling so safe anymore, are they?”

Hashirama murmured, “I…see your point.”

“But you’re still uneasy.”

Surprised, Hashirama looked up from his inspection of the cannon – just when had Madara started to see through him like that? He thought he’d been keeping up his confident act pretty well. “It’s just that I want to break the siege as soon as possible. Every day we prolong this war means greater risk, and greater losses to our clans.” That was a logical answer, one that didn’t betray his visceral fear of the unknown dangers they were about to face. He wanted to confide in Madara; he didn’t care if Madara, of all people, saw his weakness, but he didn’t want his friend to think he might be having second thoughts.

“There’s no point in dreading it.” Madara, it seemed, knew exactly what he was thinking after all. “We are samurai, Hashirama. This is the life you were born to lead – no matter how many times you say you weren’t meant for this role, we both know you play it perfectly well. You were always destined for the battlefield, just as I was. Why bother fearing the inevitable?”

“No,” said Hashirama, surprising himself as much as Madara with the suddenness of his denial. Before his mind could quite catch up to what he was saying, he said, “We were born samurai because our ancestors were samurai. Our destinies were made by the people who came before us, which means that right now, it’s our turn to shape the destinies of the ones who come after us. I want to leave them a better destiny than this, Madara – don’t you?”

Madara only stared at him in response to this declaration. In his face, Hashirama thought he recognized a feeling he’d once had, in a time long past, staring with tear-filled eyes at a teenaged Madara. So, when Madara spluttered out, “Where did you get that idea?!” Hashirama was ready with his answer.

“You gave me the idea, of course. When we were both kids.”

Madara scoffed at him in response. “You’re really taking advice from a fourteen-year-old?”

“Sometimes I think we were smarter back then than we are now,” replied Hashirama.

“I don’t think so.” Madara shook his head, but his voice held a note of regret. “We haven’t lost some great secret we once knew, Hashirama. We grew up.”

Hashirama thought about reaching out a hand to rest on top of Madara’s gloved one, still curled on top of the cannon, and flexed his hand at his side instead. “Some things you never outgrow,” he said.

\---

The sun had dipped low enough to touch the edge of the horizon, and Hashirama had worn a clear path in the weeds with his pacing. His wound was nearly healed by now; _why_ had Tobirama insisted he stay behind? Staying still and waiting while the other leaders rode out to battle was unbearable. He hated wondering what was happening, unable to do anything to influence the outcome while the people he loved might be in danger. With the light in his eyes now, he couldn’t even properly see the village his army was currently supposed to be conquering.

Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Hashirama at last made out several riders, armour glinting in the golden light, retreating from the direction of the village back towards their camp. He glanced at the sun’s position again – though he felt like he’d been waiting for ages, objectively speaking, this was sooner than he’d expected any warriors to return. One broke off from the group and cantered in Hashirama’s direction: Tobirama, he realized, mercifully coming to tell him what was going on. Tobirama reigned his horse in sharply and tore off his helmet in a single frustrated motion.

“Nothing,” he informed Hashirama.

“No samurai?”

Tobirama gave an angry shake of his head. “No samurai, no soldiers, no civilians – nothing.”

Relief though it was to hear that his people were safe, this news wasn’t exactly comforting; they should have faced resistance by now, so close to Tsuki-jō. Frowning, Hashirama said, “The last two villages at least had civilians.”

“Nobody there even to surrender this time.” Tobirama slid off his horse, landing lightly on his feet, and kicked at a weed with one booted foot. “I don’t understand it!” he fumed. “My spies report that Iesada’s armies have been moving out of Tsuki-jō. If they’re not coming to face us, where are they going?”

“Maybe Iesada doesn’t think we’re worth the effort, and he’s sending his armies off to conquer some other clan?” ventured Hashirama, without much hope.

The look he got in response told him exactly how little stock Tobirama put in that idea. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he said, subdued this time. “Whatever he’s planning, letting us get this close without so much as testing our strength… Iesada isn’t supposed to be a complete moron.”

“I can’t guess his strategy any better than you can,” Hashirama admitted. “But I think there’s one thing we can say for certain.”

His brother met his grim expression and nodded once in understanding. “He isn’t afraid of us.”

\---

_Madara,_

_If you’re reading these words, our battle with the Hagoromo has resulted in my death. _

Hashirama grimaced down at the page. Alone in his tent, with only the lantern light and his persistent worries, he’d felt compelled to set down these words as a contingency – but it seemed he’d gotten stuck nearly as soon as he started. They were only days away from Tsuki-jō now; their progress had been faster than expected, due to the lack of resistance they had faced, but even so Hashirama’s injury was now healed well enough to allow him back on the battlefield. Tomorrow, there would be more planning and discussion, new intelligence reports and final adjustments to their strategy, and then the last stage of Hashirama’s campaign would begin. It was clear now that his plan to draw Iesada’s armies from the castle had been a failure. Whatever was waiting for them inside those stone walls, Hashirama doubted it would be easy to deal with…and this thought had led him here, writing a missive he hoped would never be read.

_I don’t know how I died, but I assure you that even at the end, I never forgot the promise I made to you – if I was reckless, it’s only because I thought my sacrifice was the only way to protect the people I care about. I can’t apologize for this choice, but_

He’d been about to write, ‘_I’m sorry for causing you grief_,’ but really, despite the fraught conversation he’d had with Madara the night of the battle for Uzushio, he couldn’t really be certain how Madara would react to his death. He didn’t truly know what his friend felt for him, just as Madara most likely had no idea the depth of feeling Hashirama harboured for _him_. Hashirama was resolved to say nothing about it, certain that Madara couldn’t accept his feelings, not when danger was so imminent. But perhaps, if he died in battle, Madara would want to know the truth.

_I can’t apologize for this choice, but I truly regret having to leave you behind. I’ve spent more than half my life trying to find my way back to you, so please understand that I would never leave if I had any other choice. Even though it’s led me here, I don’t regret the path I’ve walked – for every step you helped me to take, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I truly believe we will meet again in another lifetime._

A drop of water hit the page below, smearing the freshly inked words. Startled, Hashirama touched his face to find that his cheeks were wet. This was a reaction he hadn’t expected; after all, he’d become accustomed to the idea of his own death from an early age, as any samurai would. Hashirama didn’t fear death, for himself, at least. Even the thought of leaving Tobirama behind was something he could deal with – he’d always been prepared to make any sacrifice to protect his little brother, and he knew Tobirama would understand if the worst came to pass. But Madara…

This was a useless exercise, guessing at the right words to soothe a loss Hashirama wasn’t even sure Madara would feel. As for telling him the truth – what was he supposed to write? ‘_I’ve wanted to be with you since I was fourteen’? ‘I think I’d do almost anything if you asked it of me’? _Hashirama sighed, folded the paper neatly down the middle, and dipped it into the flame of the lantern, letting his half-formed words dissolve into smoke. This had been a pointless idea in the first place. What good would it do to tell Madara that he _had been_ loved?

\---

When Hashirama felt anxious or worried, he always found that the best way to calm his mind was to walk. If he had to stay inside, he often had the urge to pace, and would find himself wearing a track in the floor of whatever room he was in. Now, he’d managed to suppress himself enough to at least stand in one place, but his nervous energy was still causing him to shift awkwardly from foot to foot – and so it was that the night before battle found the great general Senju Hashirama oscillating with indecision outside Madara’s tent.

He was trying to make up his mind whether to call out and let Madara know he was there, or else slink away without giving away his presence, when the decision was suddenly made for him: the tent flap was flung aside to reveal Madara, who spotted Hashirama standing right outside his door and jerked back in surprise. “Hashirama!” he exclaimed.

Hashirama jumped as well, and then tried not to look guilty at being caught lurking. He opened his mouth to explain away his presence, but Madara pre-empted him by saying, “I was just about go look for you.”

“You – you were?”

They stared at each other for a moment, considering this coincidence, before Madara said, “What were _you_ doing here?”

For explanation, Hashirama held up a stack of papers in his hand: intelligence reports he’d received from Tobirama, maps of the area around Tsuki-jō, and notes from the strategy meetings that had been held over the past several days. “I was hoping to go over some plans with you one last time.” It was at best a flimsy excuse, but Hashirama knew his honest answer of ‘_I was scared and alone and I thought you might be too’_ wouldn’t go over very well. “What did you want to find me for?”

“I wanted…the same, actually,” said Madara haltingly. “Best to make sure we’re well-prepared, right?”

“Right,” said Hashirama, a little unnerved at Madara’s hesitation. That didn’t sound like the real reason Madara had been about to look for him; and where was his friend’s usual haughty confidence? After a beat of silence, Hashirama ventured, “May I come in?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Madara stood aside and held back the flap, gesturing Hashirama inside. “Come in and let’s discuss strategy.”

Barely an hour into their discussion, Hashirama was back to pacing. “We’re certain the Uzumaki will be able to deal with the moat?”

In contrast to Hashirama’s constant movement, Madara was sitting very still in front of his desk, only his eyes tracking Hashirama’s movements back and forth across the tent. “The Uzumaki are used to fighting in a town with streets made of water,” he pointed out.

“And the cannons?” Six steps to one cloth wall, turn on his heel, six steps measured back the other way, turn.

Watching him, Madara said, “The castle will be in their range from outside the moat.” They’d been over this already, of course. Hashirama was repeating himself; Madara should have snapped and yelled at him at least six questions ago, but he was acting strangely tonight. His usual attitude before a battle was careless excitement, as though he was actually looking forward to the bloodshed – and Hashirama knew he really had been looking forward to this particular fight for a long time. And yet, he was tense and quiet, his voice flat when he answered. Hashirama couldn’t quite read the expression on his face, but he was almost certain that there was _fear_ somewhere in there. The thought made Hashirama’s stomach sink. Now, more than ever, he wished he was still able to read his friend’s heart the way he used to.

“Hashirama,” Madara said abruptly. His voice sounded strange, a little strangled, enough that Hashirama stopped his pacing to look in his direction. Meeting Hashirama’s eyes, Madara said, “We could die tomorrow.”

“I’m very aware of that, thank you,” Hashirama snapped, and then immediately regretted his harsh tone; Madara had to be feeling the same way he was, after all, and didn’t deserve Hashirama’s anger. But Madara completely ignored this answer, and instead unfolded himself from his seated position and got to his feet in slow, deliberate motions.

“We might die tomorrow,” he repeated, “And if that’s really the case, then there’s…there’s something I’d like to do first.”

“What’s that?” asked Hashirama, watching uncomprehendingly as Madara advanced, not realizing until the last moment how small the gap between them had become, not understanding what was going on until he was watching Madara’s eyes flutter closed, and then losing sight of his friend altogether as Madara leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing more than a quick press of lips, so short that Hashirama barely had time to realize what was happening before Madara was leaning back again. His eyes opened, flicked up to meet Hashirama’s; as Hashirama stood frozen, too shocked even to take a breath, Madara whispered, “There. Now if I die, at least I’ll die satisfied.”

And with that, he turned and made for the door.

The desperate need to keep Madara from leaving finally snapped Hashirama out of his trance. “Wait!” he called; Madara, either forgetting or not caring that they were in _his_ tent, ignored him and kept striding towards the exit. Hashirama lunged forwards desperately and managed to catch Madara by the sleeve. “Wait,” he pleaded again, and this time Madara turned to look back at him. The guarded fear on his face made Hashirama’s heart lurch; he clearly expected anger and rejection. Carefully, over the frantic hammering of his heart, Hashirama said, “If we’re both risking death tomorrow…can you really be satisfied with only that?”

“What are you saying?” Madara asked, his voice hoarse.

“I’m saying,” said Hashirama, “I think you should kiss me again.”

He watched Madara’s face suddenly light with disbelieving hope. “If you wanted…?” he murmured.

“I do,” Hashirama confirmed.

Madara stared at him for seconds that felt like a small eternity, until suddenly the moment seemed to snap, and both of them moved forwards at the same instant and crashed into each other with the force of months – maybe years – of frustrated hope and longing. It felt as Hashirama hadn’t dared to imagine: Madara’s lips warm on his, parted and pliant and _wonderful_; Madara’s hands on his shoulder and gripping his waist. He was dimly aware he had a hand buried in Madara’s thick mane of hair, pulling him in closer even as Madara pressed forward. This felt like nothing Hashirama had ever experienced – this was free falling, neither of them caring where they landed. This was letting the flames that had been burning under his skin for so long finally flare up and consume him.

By the time Madara finally pulled away, Hashirama was dizzy, his legs beginning to feel weak. But Madara was looking at him with a question in his eyes – still hesitating, unsure. Hashirama managed to gasp, “Tomorrow – when you go to the battlefield – you should go with more than just a kiss. Don’t you think?”

“_Yes,”_ Madara breathed, and leaned back in.

Finally – _finally_ – there was no more wondering, no more guessing what his friend was thinking. He _wanted_ this just as much as Hashirama did; Hashirama’s chest felt tight at the realization. His world was dissolving, everything slipping out of focus except for the sensation of Madara’s mouth on his and Madara’s hands on him. Their kiss was messy with urgency now, lips and tongues mashed clumsily together but somehow still perfect in its imperfection – but not enough, still – Hashirama needed to be impossibly closer. He slid the hand in Madara’s hair down his friend’s neck to grip the collar of his robe, and was rewarded by feeling Madara shiver in his arms. In return, Madara began tugging rather ineffectively at Hashirama’s kimono, but Hashirama was preoccupied with trying to undo Madara’s sash and didn’t bother to help him. Finally, he got the tie undone, pulled the sash aside –

Something fell to the ground with a dull _thunk_. Instantly, Madara tensed; Hashirama paused as well, confused. He knew Madara hadn’t been wearing his swords. Both of them looked down, Hashirama curious to see what had fallen, and then went cold when he saw – Izuna’s tessen, lying discarded on the ground. He’d forgotten, in the heat of the moment, that Madara had been wearing it.

“I’m sorry!” Hashirama blurted, and backed up a step. Madara wouldn’t want him touching that fan; he’d probably remember now that Hashirama was a distraction, that defeating Iesada and winning vengeance for his brother had to come before all else, that Izuna would never have approved of _this_ happening between them. “I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s alright,” said Madara. Carefully, almost reverently, he knelt to pick up the tessen, untangled the cord it hung on from the sash, and then laid the fan gently on his desk out of the way. Then, to Hashirama’s surprise, he stood and extended a hand. “Come here?”

Hashirama didn’t have to be asked twice. He’d thought he’d lost his only opportunity to be with Madara; he half believed that if he hesitated for even an instant, he would lose Madara once again. So he kissed him with all the desperation and hope he had in him, and to his great relief Madara kissed him back with the same passionate hunger. Madara’s hands were back to pulling at his clothes, even more urgently now, and so Hashirama did the same. He finally got his hands inside Madara’s kimono, finding smooth skin underneath; Madara made a small noise against his mouth that sent heat rushing through Hashirama’s veins. His wandering hands found the slightly raised scar that stretched across Madara’s chest from the injury that had, in a way, started all of this. The thought made him pause; he ran his thumb gently across the scar, marveling at how lucky he had to be, until Madara grew impatient and bit down hard on his shoulder. Gasping, Hashirama tugged Madara’s head back so he could kiss his temple, his jaw, and finally his neck, making Madara grip at his shoulders.

Hashirama stumbled forwards a step as Madara moved back, until both of them nearly tripped over the sleeping mat set out in a corner. They ended up in a barely controlled fall, sprawling in a tangle of limbs on the mat with clothes half undone, Hashirama practically sitting in Madara’s lap. With their legs tangled together, he could feel that Madara was as hard as he was. The sensation spurred Hashirama on even more; he pushed Madara back against the mat, and realized as he traced his hands down Madara’s muscled chest that they were shaking. Finally, finally, he managed to get the hakama out of the way, looked up for confirmation – Madara’s eyes were dark with arousal, no trace of hesitation now – and wrapped his hand around Madara’s dick. He got an instant reaction: Madara closed his eyes, threw back his head, and bit down on his own hand to stop himself from crying out. Dimly, Hashirama remembered that they were in the midst of an army camp made of very _thin _cloth walls, and managed to muffle his own harsh gasp.

Leaning down – hair falling in both of their faces, but neither of them cared – Hashirama positioned himself so that he could grasp both himself and Madara in one hand, biting back a moan at the feeling of Madara’s dick sliding against his own. Just that sensation alone made him feel as though he was almost at the brink. Someday, he wanted to be able to take his time learning Madara’s body, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of them both – but this had been too long in the making for him to hold himself back now. Madara seemed to feel the same way; he placed his free hand on top of Hashirama’s, urging him to move faster. He was beautiful like this, his eyes half-lidded, hair fanned out beneath him and lithe muscles tensed in pleasure. Hashirama had always thought he was beautiful when he fought – this was overwhelming by comparison.

Brokenly, Hashirama rasped, “I’ve wanted this for _ever_, Madara.”

Madara moaned quietly, the sound muffled by his hand. Hashirama said his name again, just to watch him arch his neck as he heard it. It was too much – the feeling of Madara’s hand on his dick, the sight of him like this – he had no idea how long it was before Madara was thrusting his hips desperately, gasping around his hand as he came. Hashirama moved his hand away, but Madara didn’t let him go far, bringing one hand up to grip him by the shoulder as the other palmed his dick.

“Hashirama,” he whispered.

With that, Hashirama was helpless to do anything but gasp into Madara’s shoulder and let Madara stroke him to his climax.

It took several minutes for both of them to catch their breath. When he could move without feeling like all his muscles had turned to water, Hashirama grabbed the nearest piece of clothing he could reach – his hakama – and wiped them both clean, not caring about what he’d do with the soiled pants in the morning. His kimono had been cast off just a little further, close enough for Hashirama to tug over and cover the both of them like a blanket. There were actual blankets in a neat stack at the foot of the sleeping mat, but Hashirama refused to move even that far for anything less than an enemy attack. Tucked under the kimono, Madara turned towards him, let Hashirama slide an arm under his head, and tucked his face into the crook of Hashirama’s neck. Hashirama buried his face in Madara’s hair, wishing he could see Madara’s face, but content with feeling his heartbeat gradually slow.

“Madara?”

“Mmm?”

Hashirama stroked a hand through Madara’s hair, pulling gently through the many knots and tangles. He whispered, “If I die tomorrow, I won’t die satisfied. It would take an entire lifetime with you to make me truly satisfied. So please…” He held Madara a little tighter, not knowing how he was going to react, “…Come back alive tomorrow.”

For several breaths, Madara was silent, his face hidden in Hashirama’s shoulder. Finally, he said, “You too, then. Come back alive, and I’ll meet you there.”


	10. The Ones Who Shape Destiny

Hashirama fell out of sleep in the grey light of dawn, unpleasantly alert with the knowledge that he was waking up to a day of bloodshed. This early, he could hear the sounds of the camp just beginning to wake up, preparing for the battle that was to come. But there was another sound, much nearer, unfamiliar and yet comforting: the sound of soft breathing next to him. It was Madara, still asleep, curled against Hashirama’s shoulder. A strange feeling bubbled in Hashirama’s chest at the sight. Madara, the fearsome warrior, had his lips slightly parted, his familiar scowl smoothed out in sleep. Hashirama had the sense that in his arms he was holding something immeasurably precious. The thought should have made him nervous, but instead he felt…._ right._

Though it burned him to break this quiet moment, Hashirama leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to Madara’s forehead. Those dark eyes slid open to stare balefully at him in the dim light.

“Morning already?” Madara murmured, his voice husky with sleep.

“I’m afraid so,” said Hashirama quietly. “I need to leave. I’m sorry.”

Madara raised his head enough to let Hashirama carefully extricate himself, his hair brushing against Hashirama’s bare skin as he moved, but caught Hashirama’s hand before he could move away. His eyes flicked up to Hashirama’s face; he squeezed the hand briefly and released it. “Go,” he said. “I’ll see you at the command tent.”

“I’ll see you there,” Hashirama echoed, and bit his lip to keep from saying more. He gathered up his discarded kimono and, realizing his hakama were unusable, stole Madara’s pair from off the floor instead. He needed to sneak back to his own tent before anyone realized where he’d spent the night. He knew that if he didn’t leave quickly, he’d just be tempted to stay, but he couldn’t resist one last glance back at Madara, ruffled hair falling over pale shoulders…Hashirama slipped out of the tent before his will failed him.

Fortunately for him, the cloth barriers set up throughout the camp made it easy to avoid prying eyes. Hashirama made it almost all the way across camp before running into anyone, but nearly on his own doorstep, he heard his brother’s voice calling: “Anija?”

_Shit._ Hashirama froze behind the cloth sheet, hoping that Tobirama would give up and leave the other way. If his brother saw him, there was no way he wouldn’t figure out what had happened the night before, and Hashirama was absolutely _not_ prepared for that conversation. After a few harrowing moments, Tobirama apparently gave up searching for Hashirama and left – in the opposite direction, thankfully, and Hashirama gained the safety of his tent with no one the wiser.

His clothing and armour were stacked neatly, waiting for him. Hashirama hastily changed into a fresh pair of hakama and the shirt he wore underneath his armour and began the ritual of dressing himself for battle. First, the shin guards made of metal and leather, tight as shackles around his legs; then, thigh guards of plated metal, tied around his waist; next, the heavy dō chestplate, fastened at the shoulders, iron-plated kusazuri hanging off the chestplate to cover his lower body; and finally, gauntlets to shield his forearms, leaving only his hands uncovered. Last and most important of all, his katana and wakizashi, which he tied carefully to his sash. Today there would be no mask, and no face paint, either: when he finally faced Iesada, it would be without deception or artifice.

Hashirama picked up his helmet, not wanting to wear the uncomfortable thing just yet, and sighed. After all these years, it still surprised him how much lighter amour felt when he was wearing it rather than carrying it, with the weight distributed properly over his body. Despite all the iron, the armour didn’t hinder his movement all that much – but today it felt like a prison, nonetheless. He spared a moment to wonder if there would ever come a day when he could leave off the armour for good. Despite what Tobirama said, Hashirama wasn’t entirely prone to fantasy; he knew, logically, his death would most likely come in battle. But he wasn’t about to meet his fate today.

The command tent was flying the three banners of the allied clans, waiting for each clan leader to claim their symbol and announce their identity before the castle gates. Waiting alongside the flags, Hashirama spotted Madara, Gunbai on his back, busy issuing last-minute orders to Naori and Hikaku; Mito, allowing Tōka to check over her armour; and Tobirama, fidgeting nervously with the quiver of arrows on his shoulder. As soon as Hashirama came into view, Tobirama’s head snapped up.

“Anija! Where have you _been_?!”

Hashirama felt a twinge of guilt – it seemed like Tobirama really had been anxious to find him. But before he could come up with a plausible explanation, Tobirama overrode himself: “Never mind. It doesn’t matter – I was waiting for Hashirama, but you all need to hear this.”

That got the attention of the other clan leaders. Under their stares, Tobirama straightened his spine and tried to look composed, but Hashirama could see a muscle twitching in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “What’s wrong, Tobirama?”

For some reason, Tobirama’s eyes flicked to Hikaku. The Uchiha caught his gaze and inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Explain,” Madara ordered.

“It’s about the Hagoromo soldiers,” said Tobirama. “I’ve been getting reports that troops have been moving out of Tsuki-jō, but I couldn’t figure out where they were going. Last night, Hikaku had an idea. I sent scouts to test his theory, and received a report back just after dawn.” He took a breath. “A force of at least eight hundred warriors is waiting in the hills to the southeast, about an hour’s ride from here. There may be more my scouts didn’t find.”

As everyone else processed this information, Madara rounded on Hikaku immediately and demanded, “You predicted this? Do you know what they’re doing there?”

Hikaku said, “It was just a guess, but – I thought Iesada might try to station soldiers to cut off our retreat.”

“But that’s assuming we’ll be driven back!” Mito protested. “How will Iesada do that with his troops way out in the hills?”

Madara made a noise of disapproval, his armour clanking as he folded his arms. “If we aren’t driven back, these hidden soldiers will probably ride down under cover of night. We’ll be trapped between the army and the castle walls.”

“Hold on – isn’t that incredibly risky?” asked Hashirama. “What if we take the castle before the army gets here?”

Tobirama flung out an arm to indicate the castle ahead of them, its tiered roofs visible above pale, smooth walls of stone. “Do you really think we can take _that_ in a matter of hours? We were supposed to have _weeks_ to conduct our siege!”

“If that’s what it takes,” snarled Mito, gripping her naginata with white-knuckled hands. Tōka placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Even if we can’t, these attackers won’t take us by surprise,” she said. “We were expecting to face a battle in front of the castle anyways; the only difference now is the enemy is behind us instead of in front.”

“Maybe we should retreat to attack the hidden army first, instead of advancing on the castle,” suggested Hashirama. Mito looked as though she was considering this option, but Madara shook his head.

“You’re right, Hashirama: this is a risky gamble. I don’t believe Iesada would have made a play like this unless he felt certain he could defeat us even without half his army.” He looked around at the little group, his expression dark. “He still has some strategy we haven’t yet discovered.”

Ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Hashirama said, “We proceed with the negotiation, then?”

“I’m not negotiating with Iesada without an army at my back,” said Madara. “We march on the castle.”

Nobody had any counter to that. Hashirama stepped forwards and picked up his banner, the soft ground resisting for only a moment before giving way. Mito lifted her banner as well, but out of the side of his eye Hashirama saw Naori tug the Uchiha flag out of the ground and present it to Madara, who took it with a nod. The two Uchiha retainers bowed and made their exit, off to coordinate their own section of the army. Tōka, too, left to assume her own duties, but Hashirama didn’t miss the way her hand lingered on Mito’s shoulder until the last moment. That left Tobirama, Madara, Mito, and himself: all those who would be present for the formal negotiation.

Their camp was as close as they could get to the castle, just far enough to give them some warning if the Hagoromo launched an attack, but assembling their armies to advance on Tsuki-jō was still a slow process. As an alliance of three clans, this was the largest force Hashirama had ever had to coordinate. In addition to sheer numbers, the armies also had to contend with their unusual siege weapons: the boats of the Uzumaki. Loaded onto horse-drawn carts, Mito had managed to bring along nearly forty small, two-person boats – the kind the Uzumaki used to navigate their watery streets – and, disassembled into pieces for travel, a single war barge. The strategy Hashirama and his allies had so painstakingly worked out involved defeating Iesada’s armies ahead of the castle, then using Madara’s three huge “country destroyers” to break down the castle gate, and finally crossing the river using the boats and invading under cover of the smaller cannons. Of course, they had expected the Hagoromo soldiers to be standing between them and the castle, rather than behind them; but otherwise, their strategy should still hold.

But when Hashirama and his allies finally got close enough to make out the castle gate, there was another unexpected sight waiting to greet them.

“They haven’t destroyed the bridge,” said Mito.

Sure enough, there in front of them was a glittering expanse of moat, and a graceful wooden bridge arching across it to connect the gate with solid land on the other side. This close up, Tsuki-jō was an impressive sight: the water of the moat lapped directly at smooth stone walls two stories in height, with the castle proper looming even higher, six stories high and surrounded by trees. _There’s probably a lovely garden_, Hashirama thought wistfully. No doubt the castle of the Hagoromo would have been a peaceful and beautiful place, under different circumstances. Beautiful though it was, the moat was designed to make the walls impossible to scale; the gate itself was set at shoulder height above the water, making it difficult to attack from a boat – except the bridge was still there. Why was the bridge still there?

Shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, Hashirama said, “I guess Iesada has decided to invite us in for tea. Unless – think it’s rigged to collapse?”

“That _would_ be his style,” Madara replied, but he sounded uncertain.

Seeing the bridge still intact should have been a comforting sight – after all, it would make their attack on the gate much easier than expected – but instead, it only strengthened the feeling that Iesada had something in mind none of them had anticipated. As they drew closer to the castle, Hashirama half-hoped to see the gates open and reveal hundreds of samurai, waiting to cross the bridge and face them on level ground…but as the invaders approached, Hashirama saw movement only from the top of the wall: purple eye banners flapping in the breeze and the occasional flash of steel.

The four of them stopped in front of the mysteriously intact bridge. Behind them, their armies ground to a halt as well in a clatter of metal – intimidating enough for any defender, surely, but it seemed Iesada wasn’t impressed. For several long moments, nothing happened.

“Hashirama, you should lead this negotiation,” Mito said suddenly. “You proposed this plan. You should be the one to see it through.”

Hashirama turned to look at Madara for his opinion, certain the Uchiha leader would disagree, but to his surprise Madara nodded his assent.

“Very well,” Hashirama replied. He took a few steps forward, putting himself a little way ahead of the group, and breathed in. He stood up straight, head held level, banner at his side, calm yet resolute. Ahead, the heavy metal gate finally swung outwards, revealing a lone figure walking on foot across the bridge, dressed in armour and a familiar helmet decorated with elaborate golden horns.

_I don’t believe this_, Hashirama thought, not without some amusement. Had he really come all this way to negotiate with Iesada’s brat of a nephew, _again_?

“Hagoromo Toshifusa,” he called, as the young samurai stopped at the end of the bridge, still several paces away.

“Senju Hashirama,” Toshifusa replied from his distance.

“Am I to understand you speak on behalf of your uncle?”

Toshifusa gestured to the top of the wall, just to the right of the gate. Hashirama couldn’t see what was behind the wall, but there must have been stairs leading to a ledge there, because several samurai emerged to stand at the top, visible from the knees up behind the edge of the wall. These warriors were followed by a man dressed in beautifully lacquered purple armour, his shoulders draped with a bloodred cape bearing the symbol of the ringed eye.

“As you can see, my uncle is present. I will relay to you his terms, and deliver your answer.”

“I have an army at your door, Toshifusa,” Hashirama said. “I will be the one dictating the terms.”

“No,” replied the samurai. “You’ll want to hear _our_ terms first.”

Before Hashirama could answer, the man in the ringed eye cloak – Hagoromo Iesada, without a doubt – made a beckoning motion with his right hand. Two more samurai came up the stairs onto the wall, pulling between them a young man with his hands tied behind his back. His long, unkempt black hair had been pulled back to clearly show his face; though Hashirama hadn’t seen him in years, there was no need to ask who he was. He was smaller, his features more delicate, maybe, but even so his resemblance to his brother was clear. From behind him, Hashirama heard Madara give a sharp, pained inhale.

“My uncle offers to spare the life of Uchiha Izuna, provided you agree to our terms,” Toshifusa proclaimed.

Feeling as though he were in a dream, Hashirama replied, almost automatically, “Very well. What are your terms?” He remembered, all those months ago, when Madara had insisted he would never make an agreement with Hagoromo, had threatened Hashirama with the promise of vengeance if he considered a treaty. A little hysterically, Hashirama thought, _I wonder if he’s changed his mind?_

“We ask the alliance of Senju, Uchiha, and Uzumaki clans,” Toshifusa said formally, “To surrender to us the daimyō Senju Hashirama.”

In the moment following this declaration, a cold, calculating part of Hashirama took over. He couldn’t look at Madara, couldn’t think about the pain this choice must be causing him; instead, Hashirama hardened his heart and, for perhaps the first time in his life, thought like a true daimyō.

So. They were asking for his life in exchange for Izuna’s.

Agreeing to this demand would, of course, be complete foolishness: giving himself up would demoralize his soldiers at best, and at worst, would shatter the fragile alliance. Madara had pointed that fact out himself. No, Iesada would never have expected a rational clan leader to trade himself for the relatively useless younger brother of a temporary ally. Then, what did he expect to happen when Hashirama refused? Perhaps Madara would insist Hashirama comply; that would create a rift between them, certainly, one that could break the alliance. Or, perhaps Madara would refuse to fire on the castle, for fear of causing harm to Izuna – that would be equally fatal to their plan. And if Madara made the rational decision, and saw that Izuna could not be saved? Could he carry out their carefully planned and coordinated attack, watching his brother die slowly in front of him? In that moment, Hashirama was reminded that Iesada, after all, had once fought alongside Madara, and knew him well enough to predict what he would do. There was no way Iesada could lose from this: Izuna was an inescapable wedge splitting their alliance apart, and all the Hagoromo needed to do was bring in their hidden troops to sweep up the remnants.

There was only one way forward. Madara could not be allowed to face this choice.

“The Senju clan accepts your terms,” said Hashirama.

From behind him, protests erupted:

“Anija – you can’t –!”

“Hashirama –!”

Hashirama held up a hand for silence, still not looking back. _This isn’t your decision, _he’d been about to say, but at the last moment realized: _No, they deserve an explanation. Without them, I’m dead._ He gave Toshifusa a very strained smile, and said, “But the Uchiha and Uzumaki clans must also agree. Will you allow us a moment to discuss the matter?”

Toshifusa made a gesture of assent, exaggerated enough to be nearly sarcastic. Hashirama turned his back to the envoy and faced his friends.

“_Have you lost your mind?_” spat Tobirama, the instant he turned around.

Madara, now that Hashirama was finally looking at him, still retained an expression of composure, but his dark eyes stood out in a face that had gone ashen, and when he spoke his voice was low and strangled. “Hashirama,” he said, sounding as though every word was an arrow being torn from his flesh, “You have to know Iesada won’t just let Izuna go.”

“I know that,” said Hashirama quickly, and before the two of them could mount any more protests, said as forcefully as he could manage while keeping his voice low: “Listen to me, both of you: _I am not going there to die!_”

That won him a precious moment of silence. Hashirama took full advantage. “I have a plan,” he explained hurriedly. “Iesada has bet everything on this, his hidden weapon – but he’s giving me the chance to disarm him!” Not good enough, judging by Tobirama’s expression. Hashirama pressed on: “If I don’t do this, we still risk being crushed by the forces behind us. We can’t stand still here; we _need_ to do something before that happens. With my plan, we might be able to avoid a siege.”

“He’s right,” said Mito, to Hashirama’s surprise. She nodded at him. “This _is_ an opportunity. It’s a very dangerous one, but...Hashirama, I trust you. If you say you can pull this off, I believe you.”

Hearing this from Mito might have brought Hashirama to tears, in any other situation; now there was no time to do anything but capitalize on her support. “Good,” he said, as if Tobirama and Madara had both already agreed. “Then all I need is a distraction. When I make my move, do as much as you can to draw the soldiers’ attention – start attacking the bridge, whatever – I don’t care, just make it as big as you can.”

Tobirama made a low noise of frustration. He looked as though he wanted to argue more, but he only said, “What move, exactly, are we watching for?”

“It’ll be obvious,” Hashirama assured him. He lifted his banner again and held it out to Tobirama, who took it hesitantly, his expression dark. Hashirama didn’t try to ease his fears; he held out a hand to Madara, shifting his position slightly to block Toshifusa’s view. “Madara, give me Izuna’s tessen. Make it look like you’re just shaking my hand.”

Madara put his hand at his side next to his swords, where Hashirama knew he kept his brother’s fan tied to his sash, but for a tense moment stayed frozen like that, haunted eyes locked on Hashirama’s face. Finally, he seemed to relent. He clasped Hashirama’s outstretched hand in both of his, pressing the tessen into Hashirama’s palm as he did so.

“You…” he started to say, but his words seemed to fail him.

“I know,” Hashirama lied. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know what Madara had been trying to say; regardless, there was no time to find out. Trying to keep his movements subtle, he threaded the cord attached to the fan around his own sash and tied it loosely. The tessen hung surreptitiously next to his swords, more or less hidden – he hoped – by his armour. He took a breath, and said, “No matter what happens, protect our people.”

Madara gave a brief, tense nod.

“Good luck,” said Mito.

“Don’t fail,” Tobirama bit out.

Hashirama turned his back to the people he loved, trying not to think about how those could be the last words they ever said to him. _No_, he told himself; that was unacceptable. He _would_ make it out of this alive.

Toshifusa was, of course, still waiting at the edge of the bridge. “Well?”

“The alliance agrees to your demands,” Hashirama said. “I will surrender myself as requested.”

If Toshifusa’s face changed to betray triumph or surprise, it was concealed by his helmet enough that Hashirama couldn’t tell. “Then we have an agreement, Senju Hashirama. Walk towards the bridge. _Alone_.”

Alone, Hashirama walked forwards, hands at his sides, calm and composed. A samurai was dignified even in defeat; Hashirama had never been particularly dignified, and he wasn’t yet defeated either, but now more than ever before in his life he needed to play his assigned part flawlessly.

“Drop your weapons,” Toshifusa ordered, as Hashirama came within arms reach of the bridge. Hashirama did as he was told, first unsheathing his katana, then his wakizashi and letting them drop to the ground. The life of a samurai depended on the blade; Hashirama’s made a dull _thunk_ as they hit the dirt. He held his hands in the air to show that he was unarmed, waiting for the next signal, and Toshifusa stepped aside to let him cross the bridge – his hand, Hashirama noted coolly, gripping the hilt of his sword. The back of Hashirama’s neck prickled, anticipating an attack that never came. Ahead, the iron gate swung open once again. He stepped through without looking back and heard the gate clang shut behind him.

Inside the castle walls, the first thing Hashirama saw was not a lovely garden as he had imagined: instead he saw rows of armoured samurai, standing almost eerily still in their formation. This was what was waiting for his clan, if they managed to breach the castle walls. This close up, Hashirama had no hope of estimating their number – though considering the limited space, they had to be outnumbered by the armies of the alliance. No time to think about this, either – no sooner had the gate closed behind them then Toshifusa said, “Remove all armour above your waist.”

All armour _above the waist_ was a telling order: they weren’t simply removing his ability to defend himself. Iesada was planning to have him commit seppuku. It was a logical move - nothing would work better to signal to his clan that their leader had surrendered, and their battle was lost. Still, as Hashirama unfastened the gauntlets from his arms and undid the shoulder straps of his armour, cold anger began to solidify in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t going to go the way Iesada had planned. No matter what, Hashirama was not going to give him the satisfaction of his surrender.

Toshifusa motioned at a samurai guard standing next to the gate. “Check him for weapons,” he ordered. Hashirama held up his arms and allowed the guard to pat down his arms and waist. If it were Tobirama being searched, the guard would have found a tantō up his left sleeve and a series of senbon in his sash; as it was, the search turned up nothing. Hashirama held his breath as the guard moved past the cord securing Izuna’s tessen. _It’s just a fan,_ Hashirama mentally chanted, trying to think of an excuse to keep it with him. _Nothing dangerous about a fan_ – but the guard moved past it without pausing, and Hashirama suppressed a sigh of relief.

With the search complete, Hashirama’s arms were seized by a guard on each side. Here was another thing to worry about: would they tie his hands? That would put an additional obstacle in a plan that, as Hashirama was beginning to acknowledge, was already awfully precarious. But, thankfully, the Hagoromo were either too confident or in too much of a rush to bind his hands. Instead, his two captors escorted him up the stairs next to the gate, Toshifusa following behind, up to the top of the wall where Iesada waited.

At the top of the wall, Hashirama was afforded the same view as the castle defenders – a perspective that, as the head of an invading army, he hadn’t expected to get. The wall was two stories high: not exactly a dizzying height, compared to the six-story castle, but enough to see his clan, and the Uzumaki and Uchiha clans, spread out below. The real purpose of this, of course, wasn’t to show him is own people, but to let his people watch him die. Everything that happened now would happen in full view of everyone who cared about him. As the guards forced Hashirama to his knees in front of Iesada, he mentally promised him, _That strategy is going to be your downfall._

“Senju Hashirama,” said the daimyō of the Hagoromo clan. He had had Hashirama placed a few paces away from where he was standing – still being cautious, Hashirama supposed, though maybe he simply wanted to avoid blood splatter on his wonderfully lacquered armour. Presumably, he felt safe enough on his own castle wall to forgo a helmet, thus affording Hashirama his first good look at the man he’d been battling for half a year. Hagoromo Iesada looked to be in his fifties or sixties, with gray streaks in his thin beard, though his hair, worn in a knot at the back of his head, was black and slightly greasy. “I thought you might accept my terms,” he said. His voice had a faintly nasal quality, but carried the commanding note of someone accustomed to being obeyed. He also sounded like he was relishing this. “You do have a reputation for – shall we say – leaving your battles unfinished.”

Hearing his duel with Madara described that way nearly made Hashirama laugh despite his growing anger. Instead he replied politely, “It seems that this is the only way I could meet with you in person, Iesada-dono. Thank you for finally agreeing to my request.”

That caught him off-guard – he took a step in Hashirama’s direction, eyes narrowed, as if by getting a better look at him he could see the defiance and fear Hashirama was hiding. As he moved, Hashirama caught a glimpse of Izuna behind him, still in the grip of a single guard. Hashirama quickly refocused his eyes on Iesada: everything hinged on Izuna now, but he had to try to convince Iesada that Hashirama himself had no stake in whether Madara’s brother lived or died. Otherwise, he would only be increasing Iesada’s leverage.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a grave mistake,” Iesada told him. “This is no negotiation, my boy: the negotiation has already ended. You gave yourself up for far too little. It’s fortunate for you that I’ve decided to let you die honourably.”

“You’re right,” replied Hashirama levelly. What he said here would determine how the next several minutes would play out; if he’d misjudged this man he’d barely met, he would lose everything. No chance to second-guess himself – nothing for him to do but act completely on instinct. “This isn’t a negotiation.” Hashirama said, hoping desperately that he was aiming true. “This is a warning.”

“A warning?” Iesada scoffed, but there was a note of annoyance in is voice now. _Good_. “You are in no position to be giving out warnings, my boy.”

Hashirama ignored him. “I thought you were already lost, but I was wrong: you haven’t killed Uchiha Izuna, and that means there’s still a chance for you. If you release him unharmed, you might still be able to save yourself – but I warn you, this is your last opportunity.”

His gloating now thoroughly derailed, Iesada’s face settled into hard, angry lines. “And exactly what am I to expect will happen to me if I don’t?”

“You will face the retribution of Uchiha Madara.”

“_Uchiha Madara_,” Iesada repeating mockingly. “I see, now. No doubt he intimidated you into trading yourself for his little brother. Well, to you he might seem fearsome, but to me he’s nothing but a toothless dog. What has he ever been able to do to me?”

“Look around you,” said Hashirama. “He brought an army to hunt you down – and after you thought you left him with nothing. You _should_ be afraid of him, Iesada-dono. You’ve done nothing but make him more determined.”

Iesada’s face was beginning to turn red. He took another step towards Hashirama, emphasizing the difference in height between them, with Hashirama still on his knees. He began, “If you think – ”

“More importantly,” Hashirama continued, riding over Iesada’s words, “You should fear Uzumaki Mito. You know how she dealt with the armies you threw at her, so you think you understand what she’s capable of; but you should ask yourself – do you really know?”

“As if that vixen could – !”

“The only one you fear as you should,” said Hashirama, “Is me. You demanded I give myself up; that shows you understand how dangerous I am to you. But if your judgement really is as sound as you think, then listen to me now: killing me will do nothing to save you, because I’m not the one who brought your enemies together. _You_ are the one who did that, Iesada-dono.”

“My _enemies_ are nothing to me!”

Hashirama tilted his head back to look Iesada in the eye. “Then you’re a greater fool than I thought. Have you forgotten what the three of us have done? Have you forgotten _who we are?_”

Finally Iesada’s temper seemed to snap. “'Who you are?'” he snarled, and in one motion grasped the hilt of his sword and tore it from the sheath. “You’re a dead man, Hashirama! That’s all you are!” He gripped the sword two-handed above his shoulder, preparing for a blow that would cleave Hashirama’s head from his shoulders, and brought the blade down hard.

Hashirama ripped Izuna’s tessen from its tie on his sash and lunged forwards to meet Iesada’s blow. The sword met the iron fan with a juddering _clang_, stopping the blade mid-swing; in the bare seconds before Iesada and his guards could react, he grabbed Iesada by the wrist with his free hand and pulled with all his strength, throwing his weight forwards. Iesada fell past him and collided with the guards grabbing for Hashirama’s shoulders – Hashirama tore himself free of their grasping hands and turned, landing a hard blow to Iesada’s head with the tessen. All along the wall, samurai were drawing their swords, ready to converge on him – Hashirama had to get to Izuna first, but as he turned to run, an enormous _BOOM_ knocked him back to his knees. For an instant he thought he’d been struck, but as he struggled to stand again he realized all the guards surrounding him were in the same state as he was; and then, in the next moment, another tremendous _BOOM_ shook the wall, and Hashirama realized: Madara was firing the cannons _directly at him_.

_So much for being afraid to fire on Izuna!_ Madara must have been awfully confident that he’d accurately judged both the strength and aim of the kunikuzushi – as predicted, the wall wasn’t quite crumbling, but it was quaking dangerously under the relentless cannon fire, and Hashirama didn’t like his chances of being struck by a stray projectile. Somehow, he was able to get to his feet and stagger forwards, towards the edge of the wall and Izuna. The Hagoromo guard had managed to keep hold of Izuna in the chaos, and the two of them were struggling on hands an knees; despite his tied hands, Izuna had gotten a grip on the hilt of his captor’s sword, preventing the guard from drawing his weapon. The samurai looked up from his fight at just the right moment for Hashirama to slam his metal fan into the man’s face with a sickening _crunch_ – he reared back, clutching his nose, just as another cannonball hit the wall immediately below. All three of them were thrown forwards with the force of the blow – the unfortunate guard hit the knee-high barrier and flew over the edge, nearly dragging Izuna with him – Hashirama threw out a hand and was just able to grab Izuna by the arm, bracing himself against the lip of the wall to stop both of them from being thrown over. For a moment, they huddled awkwardly behind the shallow barrier amidst the chaos.

“You’re using that wrong,” said Uchiha Izuna.

Hashirama spared a precious instant to stare at him in exasperation. “Take it, then!” he shouted over the cannon fire, and shoved the tessen in Izuna’s direction; in answer, Izuna held up his bound hands, which to Hashirama’s surprise were holding the guard’s katana. He must have managed to rip it away from its owner in the instant he’d nearly been thrown off the wall. Hashirama, impressed despite himself, traded the tessen for the katana and began trying to work the blade under the ropes around Izuna’s wrists.

“What now?” Izuna yelled at him as he worked.

“Um,” said Hashirama. His initial plan had been to somehow make it back down the stairs to hide in the courtyard of the castle until the gate could be breached, but considering the danger on the wall and the samurai waiting below, that no longer seemed like an option. “I didn’t really think this part through!”

“Then we’re fucked,” was all Izuna said as the ropes at his hands fell away.

Hashirama was usually an optimist, but right now he could hardly disagree – but then, over the noise of the cannons, came the melodic note of Mito’s conch-shell trumpet. Though Hashirama wasn’t familiar with all the commands, he recognized that particular sequence as the signal for an army to swing hard to the right. That was strange: there wasn’t really any place for the army to attack aside from the gate, unless they’d managed to launch the boats, so why would she –

“That’s for us!” Hashirama realized. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the barrage of cannon fire, constant up until now, suddenly ceased, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. “_Run!_” Hashirama shouted, and yanked Izuna to his feet, pushing him ahead. Hidden behind the wall as they had been, their friends below would have had no way of knowing where the two of them were, but now they were clearly visible to both their allies and their enemies on the wall. Cannon fire erupted again, this time behind them, in the direction of the gate. Hashirama ignored this, ignored everything except for Izuna and the expanse of wall ahead of him, and the water below – _there!_ A single small boat had launched from the bank just ahead of them – all they had to do was make it to that boat. But now arrows were beginning to glance off the stones in front of them – Hashirama felt rather than saw a bolt fly past him – in the next instant Izuna cried out in pain, stumbled, nearly fell – Hashirama dropped the sword he was still holding to grab Izuna by the arm, pulling him back to his feet. Now Hashirama could feel much smaller impacts speckling the wall around them: the small cannons were covering their flight while the kunikuzushi pounded the gate. _Please don’t miss! _Hashirama silently begged the Uchiha gunners. They were nearly to the boat, and definitely out of time.

“Jump!” Hashirama yelled, and still clinging to Izuna’s arm, flung himself and Izuna ungracefully over the top of the barrier and over the edge of the wall, plunging two stories down to the water below.

The impact of the water nearly knocked the breath from Hashirama’s lungs and made his ears sing with shock. But under the surface, it was suddenly strangely peaceful: the explosions and screams from the wall above were muffled, and the water around him was still and quiet. He could almost have stayed like that, suspended in a dreamlike state, if not for the weight of the armour on his legs dragging him down and the tug of Izuna’s arm still in his hand. Hashirama kicked hard for the surface instead, his lungs starting to complain as he beat at the water with his free hand – he had never been the strongest of swimmers, but with an enormous effort he managed to fight the pull of gravity. He broke the surface, gasping, and was abruptly plunged back into the real world again, the sounds of the battle back in full force. Beside him, Izuna surfaced as well and began to cough.

“_Anija!_”

There was the boat, right behind them, and Tobirama at the side, leaning over the water with his hand outstretched.

“Take Izuna!” Hashirama gasped, trying to shove him forwards through the water while keeping himself afloat. “He’s injured!”

Tobirama cursed loudly as an arrow landed on the bow of his boat with a loud _thunk._ He looked back and forth from Hashirama to Izuna, momentarily undecided, but then made a wordless noise of frustration and grabbed Izuna by the wrist to haul him over the side of the boat, the small craft rocking wildly. Another arrow thudded into the wood of the boat; Tobirama swore again and scrambled to pick up his oar. “Just hold onto the boat, Anija!” he yelled, and turned the boat sharply in the other direction.

Hashirama lunged for the back of the boat and managed to grab hold as Tobirama propelled them forwards as quickly as he could manage, arrows splashing into the water around them. This close to the wall, they were an easy target for the archers above; Hashirama, trying to bring himself as far under the boat as he could to shield himself, was half surprised he wasn’t riddled with arrows already. But as they moved through the water, he was finally able to see why: the defenders on the wall weren’t concentrating on his escape, but rather on the battle at the castle gate. From here, Hashirama couldn’t tell how well the gate was holding up against the assault, but he could tell that Mito and Madara were throwing the whole strength of their combined armies at the castle, trying to give Hashirama and Izuna a chance to get away.

Abandoning his usual careful steering in favour of speed, Tobirama ran the boat aground on the bank, the grinding impact making Hashirama’s hands sting where they still clung to the boat. Just a little farther and they would be out of arrow range, and safe. Hashirama scrambled up the bank while Izuna brushed off Tobirama’s attempts to pull him out of the boat and jumped down himself. By now it seemed that nobody on the wall was even trying to shoot at them, but Hashirama still couldn’t let himself breathe just yet.

“Let me see your arm,” he demanded of Izuna, the instant they were far enough away from the moat.

Blood was beginning to soak through the sleeve of Izuna’s right arm, but before Hashirama could get a good look, he covered the wound protectively with his other hand, which – even after everything – still held his tessen.

“Just do it,” Tobirama said in exasperation. “He’s a medic.”

Still looking skeptical, Izuna allowed Hashirama to pull the sleeve away and examine the arrow wound in his arm – “Just a graze,” Hashirama told him, relieved. He relinquished Izuna’s arm long enough to rip off one of his own sleeves, using his teeth to start the tear. “I still need to stop the bleeding,” he explained. “Sit down and hold out your arm.” He handed the sleeve to Tobirama, who, without needing to ask, began working to tear the cloth into thin strips.

“Just what kind of ‘plan’ do you call _that_, Anija?” Tobirama accused as he handed his brother a piece of makeshift bandage. “You said you had a ‘plan’, not whatever half-baked, suicidal, ridiculous attempt _that_ was!”

“I have to agree,” said Izuna, watching Hashirama wind bandages around his arm.

“Oh no you don’t! _You_ don’t get to complain,” Tobirama snapped. “_You_ should just be grateful Hashirama saved your life.”

“Can you both please just be quiet,” said Hashirama tiredly. But when he looked up from his work, he found Izuna giving him a cool, appraising look.

“Why would you do that?” he asked. “I don’t buy that you were intimidated by my brother.”

Hashirama sighed. What was it about these Uchiha that made them ask questions when Hashirama knew they wouldn’t be satisfied with his true answer? But before he could come up with an explanation he would accept, Izuna guessed, “Was this for the debt you owed him?”

“He told you about that?” Hashirama asked in surprise. Izuna only looked at him, waiting for his answer. He really did resemble his brother, especially when he wore that expression – something about the eyes. Maybe it was that expression that made him say, “No, I wasn’t paying off my debt. I just didn’t – I wanted – your brother really misses you, Izuna.”

That had to be a suspicious answer, though it had been an honest one; but if anything, Izuna actually looked resigned. “So the two of you really are…working together?”

“Unfortunately,” said Tobirama.

“Ugh,” said Izuna. “He must be delighted.” At that, both little brothers made such similar faces of disdain that Hashirama nearly laughed. Instead, he tied off the final bandage and released Izuna’s arm.

“There,” he said. “You won’t bleed to death, at least, but we should get you to a real doctor sooner rather than later.” He looked up at last to see the battle still raging at the castle gate, and suddenly recalled the rows of Hagoromo samurai waiting behind the wall – his people were heading right into that. He scrambled to his feet. “And I should be at the battle!”

Tobirama grabbed him by the shoulder, preventing him from rushing off. “Look, Anija!” he said. “The gate is down. It’s over.”

Hashirama looked, properly this time, and saw that Tobirama was right: samurai were streaming unimpeded through the twisted remains of the gate, while above them, thin wisps of smoke were curling from the towering castle itself. That probably meant that the Hagoromo, sensing their defeat, had set their own castle alight to deny Hashirama and his allies its capture. The thought made the fiery words he’d spoken to Iesada just minutes before taste like ashes in his mouth. There must have been families that had lived in that castle; maybe there were young wards, or hostages like he and Madara had once been, now paying the price for Hashirama’s victory. This was what Hashirama had been working towards all this time, what he’d hoped for, what he’d been prepared to sacrifice his life to achieve. But as he watched the smoke from the castle grow thicker and darker, he wondered if this was really the legacy he wanted to leave behind.

“Let’s go,” he said. He sounded dull to his own ears.

Moving carefully so as not to jar his arm, Izuna got to his feet. “Where can I find my brother?”

“He was commanding the cannons at the bridge, last I saw him,” answered Tobirama.

“I can’t believe he let you come rescue us on your own,” said Hashirama, as the three of them set off back in the direction of the bridge. “He must trust you after all, Tobirama.” In fact, he was surprised Madara hadn’t been waiting for them on the bank either; was he still so determined to get his vengeance, even with his brother still alive? Then again, what was it Hashirama had said to him right before they parted? _Protect our people._

Tobirama made a low noise of grudging acknowledgement. “When he ordered the cannons aimed right at the wall where you were, I thought he was going insane. Nearly tried to run him through until he pointed out it was _his_ brother up there, too.”

“Those cannons saved our lives, so thank you very much for not doing that,” said Hashirama. They were beginning to approach the three large cannons, still positioned in front of the castle wall near the gate, but silent now that the gate had fallen. The army he had led to that gate had almost completely disappeared, the warriors all rushing to the battle inside the castle – all that planning and preparation, and this battle had been all but decided in less than an hour – but ahead of them, there was still a group of Uchiha soldiers firing the small cannons at the remaining enemies on the wall, covering their allies inside. As their little group limped closer, Hashirama heard Madara’s voice before he saw him: still barking orders to his subordinates, directing the cannon fire.

“Nii-san!” Izuna called.

Madara turned. His armour and his face were grimy with ash, and the Gunbai he still held in one hand bore new notches that must have come from arrows; but the instant he saw his brother, he dropped the Gunbai and took off running towards him. “Izuna!”

Izuna ran a few stumbling steps forwards as well, but didn’t have time to make it very far before Madara collided with him in a hug that all but lifted Izuna off his feet. “Izuna!” Madara said again, this time in a voice choked with tears.

“Ow, Nii-san!”

“Sorry! Are you hurt?”

“No – no, I’m fine.”

Hashirama had to look away – he felt like an intruder on a moment that belonged to the two brothers.

“What took you so long?” he heard Izuna ask.

“I thought you were dead!” said Madara, and then again, as if afraid to believe he’d been proven wrong: “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m okay, Nii-san,” Izuna reassured him again. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Hashirama tipped his head towards the sky in an effort to pretend his eyes hadn’t started to water. He made to wipe his face with his one intact sleeve, remembered his clothes were still entirely soaked, and sniffed instead, a little louder than he’d intended. Finally he looked back to see Madara still clutching his brother, both of them now sitting on the ground. Over Izuna’s shoulder, Madara caught Hashirama’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Madara said. “Thank you.”

In response, Hashirama could only nod, speechless. All the glory and honour he’d won by conquering the Hagoromo might feel entirely hollow to him, but this – this moment alone was a legacy he could be proud to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a while in the making, but we're finally almost done - just a short epilogue left! Thanks everyone for sticking with me this long!  
(In case anyone is interested, I mostly based Tsuki-jo off of Osaka castle, except that Osaka castle has not one but two entire moats. Way to be extra, Toyotomi Hidehoshi)


	11. Epilogue

Madara found him just after dawn.

“I saw you sneaking out of the castle,” he said in answer to Hashirama’s startled look. “You’re very predictable. Well,” he amended, “most of the time.”

Hashirama had to admit nobody who knew him would be surprised to find him here, wandering what was left of the gardens of Tsuki-jō, especially on a morning like this. It had rained all night, but the morning had dawned bright and clear, with storm clouds still visible in the distance and the air damp and cool. Though the days were still warm, there was a chilly bite to the early morning air: a reminder that the seasons were about to turn. Nearly a month had passed since the siege of Tsuki-jō, yet Hashirama felt they had only just begun to rebuild.

“Walk with me?” Hashirama asked, and Madara fell into step beside him, the two of them wandering through the gardens in companionable silence. The Hagoromo had only partially succeeded in burning their castle; most of the foundations were made from stone, specifically to make the castle difficult to burn, and so the bones of Tsuki-jō had survived the battle. The trees in the outer courtyards had survived as well, removed as they were from the main tower. It was nearly a miracle how little the short-lived siege had destroyed – with Iesada dead, and the castle firmly in the hands of Hashirama and his allies, the remainder of the Hagoromo troops had surrendered easily.

But the end of the battle had only been the beginning of their work: there were wounded troops to deal with, on both sides, and the fate of the remaining Hagoromo and their allies had to be determined. In an hour, Hashirama would be meeting with yet another one of Iesada’s former retainers, trying to peacefully renegotiate the loyalties of those who had served the fallen Hagoromo clan; once that was over, he’d be seeking out Tōka to check the progress of her healing wound. With Hashirama fleeing from the wall and Madara occupied with the cannons, Mito and Tōka had been the ones to spearhead the attack on the gate, and Tōka had paid for it with a deep slash to her right arm. She took the injury in stride, as was her nature, but regaining the use of her arm would be a slow and painful process. Hashirama had promised to help as much as he could.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” said Madara eventually. Hashirama nodded, a little apprehensive but determined not to show it. In the weeks following their victory, he had barely had any opportunity to be alone with Madara, much less speak with him. In a few stolen moments, they had exchanged a handful of hurried kisses – only an echo of the night they had spent together before the battle, and not enough to let Hashirama guess what Madara was really feeling. So much had changed since that night, after all: the common enemy that had once united them was gone, replaced by spoils to divide, and – perhaps more importantly – Madara’s lost brother, always his first priority, had been returned to him. Madara, as well as Hashirama and Mito, had needed to stay at Tsuki-jō to work out what would happen to the conquered clan in the aftermath of the battle, but Hashirama knew their time was beginning to run out. The thought was accompanied by an ache deep in Hashirama’s chest.

Whatever Madara wanted to say, it didn’t seem easy for him to say it: for several minutes he was silent, looking everywhere but at Hashirama as they walked. At last, he said abruptly, “I never thought I’d be here.” As Hashirama looked at him in confusion, he elaborated, “When you found me in that border town, I was ready to give up. I’d lost my brother, my clan – I thought everything was hopeless. That was half a year ago.”

“A little more than that,” Hashirama corrected. Madara huffed in annoyance, but still didn’t look at him.

“Alright; a _little_ more than half a year later, and somehow the Uchiha clan is united behind me again, _trusting_ me…and the brother I mourned is alive.” Madara stopped walking to look at Hashirama at last, his expression open and wondering. Hashirama stopped as well, his breath catching in his throat. Madara said, “You gave me all of that, Hashirama. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

“Don’t say that, Madara,” Hashirama blurted, the words coming out almost as a plea. He had never wanted Madara to be indebted to him; only to be happy, and, though he knew it was too much to ask, to be with him. He was glad, of course, to have helped in accomplishing the first part – but as for the second, he’d always known Madara was not someone he could keep forever. “No debts between friends,” he said, and meant it.

“Friends,” Madara repeated. “Is that what we are to each other?” Before Hashirama could reply, he said, “You spoke of debt often enough when you thought you owed _me_. But never mind – I didn’t come here today to talk about debts.”

Steeling himself, Hashirama asked, “What did you want to talk about, then?” He was certain, now: Madara had sought him out to tell him he was leaving. Though he’d known it had to happen eventually, the thought still broke his heart – but he was determined not to show how badly this goodbye hurt. He had nothing, no arguments left to persuade Madara to stay with him, no more clever ideas, and so he resolved himself to say nothing. He would not make this any more difficult than it needed to be.

But Madara still seemed unwilling to get to the point. “I’ve been thinking, these past few weeks, about how you managed to do something that should have been impossible. You took an enormous risk to help me, someone who was once your friend, when I should have been useless to you. I truly don’t believe there’s anyone else in the world who would have done that for me.” Hashirama bit his lip – if this really was Madara’s way of saying goodbye, he was making it almost unbearably hard. “But as foolish and naïve as I thought you were,” he continued, “I have to admit you were_ right_. Forget what you did to help me; your strategy saved my clan! You always argued that Senju and Uchiha were stronger together than separate. I’d say you’ve finally proven your point.”

“I – I don’t understand.” _Why_ did Madara have to look so beautiful with the light catching in his eyes like that?

“Just listen for a moment, Hashirama.” Madara took a deep breath, paused as if gathering his thoughts, and said, “I’ve been trying to decide what to do now that Iesada is gone. My clan needs to be rebuilt, and it’s my duty to see that they’re protected.”

So it _was _goodbye, then. Hashirama’s eyes stung despite his best efforts at composure; he nodded, not trusting his voice.

“What I’ve realized, Hashirama, is that I can’t do that well enough on my own. My people have been better off allied with you than they’ve ever been on they’re own. _I’m_ better,” Madara said, “with you.”

“What are you saying?” Hashirama managed.

“What I’m suggesting,” said Madara, voice wavering ever so slightly, “is a union between our clans. Not an alliance, exactly – something more permanent.”

Hashirama blinked, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “What?”

“If you agree to this, the interests of the Senju clan will be the interests of the Uchiha, so we’ll never waste our lives doing battle with one another again. I want to rule our clans together, Hashirama. We can be stronger that way, and we’ll be able to – ” Madara cut himself off, frowning. “Why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” said Hashirama, through the tears that were now falling freely down his face. “You just put into words something I’ve been thinking for a long time.”

“Oh,” said Madara, “Oh – so…does this mean you accept?”

Hashirama laughed wetly, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “Did you really doubt I would? Madara, it’s everything I ever wanted! I never even dared to _dream_ I’d hear something like this from you!”

“You didn’t dare to dream it? But you were the one who gave me the idea.”

“I did?”

“You told me you wanted to shape a better destiny for the people who come after us.” Madara shook his head incredulously, stray locks of hair brushing his face. “I’d laugh at anyone else who said that, but you – I’m beginning to believe you could actually do it!”

“Madara,” Hashirama said, and reached out a hand to grip one of his, “I’ve always believed my destiny was linked with yours."

Madara smiled ever so slightly as Hashirama stroked a thumb over the backs of his knuckles. Dryly, he said, “And I always thought we were probably destined to fight to the death. But if your philosophy is to be believed, we can make our destiny whatever we want.”

“Yes,” said Hashirama, smiling back at him in the morning light. “You know, this plan of yours is full of problems. You said we’re ruling together – who gets the final say if we disagree? How are we going to allocate resources? Are we going to have to build a new castle town?” Hashirama held up a finger. “Who gets the title of Daimyō?”

“I didn’t want to work out the details until I knew you were interested!” protested Madara, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Izuna will probably have a lot of ideas.”

“Oh – Izuna! Have you told him?” An image of Izuna’s resigned expression when he’d learned of Hashirama’s alliance with his brother popped into Hashirama’s mind. “He’s going to hate it, isn’t he?”

Madara threw back his head and laughed, delighted and mischievous; Hashirama, lost in that now-familiar melting sensation, grinned helplessly back. “Tobirama’s going to hate it, too,” Madara pointed out, smiling wickedly.

“Well, it’ll take some getting used to, but I think Tobirama will come around. He and Hikaku are becoming friends, and of course he’s very fond of Kagami. Do you know, he even told me he wants to make Kagami his apprentice?”

“Hah! He’ll have his hands full with that,” Madara remarked, still amused. More seriously, he added, “I expect some resistance to this plan, of course, but I believe most of my clan will be in favour. My people love you – for some inexplicable reason.”

Hashirama, feigning shock, hung his head dramatically to show his hurt at this last jab, but gave up at Madara’s _tch_ of exasperation – he was too genuinely happy to keep up the charade. “I would have missed Hikaku and Naori,” he said instead.

“And Mito?” Madara guessed. “I’d ask her to join as well, but…”

“She’d never accept,” Hashirama finished. “Her priority has always been to keep the Uzumaki independent.”

“We’ll continue our alliance with the Uzumaki,” Madara assured him. “Mito will agree to that. She won’t get rid of us at least until I’ve finished teaching her how to use my kusarigama.”

So there were still goodbyes to be said, after all – but not permanent goodbyes. Hashirama could live with that. “We’ll work things out,” he agreed, squeezing Madara’s hand gently. “I trust you, Madara. Enough to follow you anywhere.”

“Funny,” said Madara, his voice deep and throaty, “I was going to suggest I’d follow _you._”

Still barely believing this new reality, Hashirama looked outwards, to the edge of the garden, the castle wall and beyond – the villages that lived under their protection, the mountains and forests that cradled their lands, the battlefields and the homes. He said, “Then I guess our only way forward is to stay side by side.”

Madara, for once humouring him, gripped his hand and said nothing as Hashirama looked out at a world that suddenly held so many of the dreams they had both shared half a lifetime ago. So they stood like that, side by side, and watched as the sun rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we finally made it to the end! In the time it took me to write this fic, I wrote and published a scientific paper - still haven't decided which of the two is my bigger accomplishment, but I definitely got better reviews on the fic. To everyone who commented, thank you so much! It's genuinely so delightful and encouraging to hear your thoughts and reactions. And if you left comments on multiple chapters as I put them up - I see that, and I appreciate it so, so much :)


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